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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/charactertreatmeOOcrowrich 


CHARACTER-TREATMENT 

IN  THE  MEDIAEVAL 

DRAMA 


BY 


TIMOTHY  J.  CROWLEY,  C  S.  C 


DISSERTATION 

Submitted  to  the  Faculty  of  Philosophy 

OF   THE 

Catholic  University  of  America 

IN    PART    fulfillment   OF   THE    REQUIREMENTS    FOR   THE 

Degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy 


"Ars  utinam  mores  animumque  effingere  possit! 
Pulchrior  in  terris  n\i]l(^  t^abella  fqr^t*" 
Martial,  J?pi^.Up:X,j2-f.,'  V 


"Let  us  have  the  mind  and  the  mind's  workings,  not  the  remains  of  earnest  thought  which 
has  been  frittered  away  by  a  long  dreary  course  of  preparatory  study,  by  which  all  life  has 
been  evaporated.  Never  forget  that  there  is  in  the  wide  river  of  nature  something  which  every- 
body who  has  a  rod  and  line  may  catch,  precious  things  which  every  one  may  dive  for." — "The 
Gem,  February  Number." 


NOTRE  DAME,  IND. 
1907 


FEB  6   i»ii 
BXCHAJJJGE 


COPYRIGHTHD  J907 

By  Timothy  J.  Crowlhy,  C.  S.  C. 


i:^:;:Vf:..i 


PREFACE 


A  word  on  the  nomenclature  to  be  used  in  this  Essay.  It  will 
be  understood  from  the  purpose  in  view  that  we  are  engaged  with 
the  beginning  of  an  art  -  form,  and  consequently  are  long  antecedent 
to  the  date  of  precise  terminology  and  defined  technique.  The 
drama  with  which  we  have  to  do  is  in  its  formative  period,  in 
process  of  growth.  It  is  obvious,  then,  that  terms,  which  have  a 
very  definite  meaning  when  speaking  of  the  classical  drama,  must 
be  employed  loosely,  and  in  some  instances,  merely  analogically, 
when  reference  is  to  early  and  imperfect  forms.  The  classical  terms 
**tragoedia"  and  *'comoedia"  are  not  normally  applicable  to  the  relig- 
ious play  until  the  Renaissance  influences  come  in  toward  the  end 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  In  fact  their  Mediaeval  sense,  as  Mr. 
Chambers  notes  (The  Mediaeval  Stage,  Vol.  II,  p.  103,)  implies 
nothing  distinctly  dramatic.  Cloetta,  in  the  first  volume  of  his 
work  on  the  history  of  Mediaeval  and  Renaissance  literature 
(  Komodie  und  Tragodie  im  Mittelalter)  has  collected  and  analyzed 
in  historical  order,  descriptions  of  comedy  and  tragedy  which  have 
little  in  common  with  Aristotle's  definitions.  Few  if  any  of 
the  Mediaeval  authors  that  the  historian  cites  can  be  said  to  have 
in  mind  the  purely  professional  or  academic  connotation  of  the 
words  in  the  sense  that  Aristotle  had;  rather  it  was  with  the 
popular  or  analogical  import  of  the  terms  that  they  were  concerned. 
Chaucer's  familiar  reference  in  the  Miller's  Tale,  for  instance, 
makes  no  pretention  either  to  technical  accuracy  or  completeness. 
Nobody  would  impute  to  Dante  ignorance  of  the  classical  definition 
of  tragedy  and  comedy,  his  analogical  use  of  the  words,  how- 
ever, may  be  taken  as  illustrative  of  Mediaeval  usage  generally. 
"Est  comedia  genus  quoddam  poeticae  narrationis  ab  omnibus  aliis 
differens.  Differt  ergo  a  tragoedia  per  hoc,  quod  tragoedia  in  prin- 
cipio  est  admirabilis  et  quieta,  in  fine  sine  exitu,  foetida  et  horri- 
bilis  .  .  .  Comoedia  vero  inchoat  asperitatem  alien  jus  rei,  sed  ejus 
materia  prospere  terminatur,  etc."  Conformably  with  this  distinc- 
tion he  called  his  own  poem  a  comedy  and  the  Aeneid  a  tragedy, 
(Cf.  Inferno  XX,  113;  DuMeril,  I^es  Origines  Latines  du  Theatre 
Moderne,  pp.  32-33.)  It  will  be  well  to  bear  in  mind  this  breadth 
of  meaning  given  the  specific  terms  "tragoedia"  and  "comoedia,"  if 
one  would  undenstand  in  what  sense  such  words  as  drama,  dramatist^ 
poet,  play,  scene,  act,  climax,  etc.,  are  applicable  to  the  Mediaeval 
playwright  and  his  work. 


iU 


228717 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 11 

CHAPTER  I  — Certain  Analogies  Between  the  Greek  and  the 
Early  English  Drama:  Fall  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
Theatre:     Origin  of  the  Modern  Drama, 

The  prominence  of  lyrical  and  dramatic  expressions  in  the  public 
worship  of  peoples.  The  spontaneous  character  of  this  worship. 
The  beginnings  of  the  drama  in  Greece.  Its  eminently  religious 
character.  Its  appeal  to  perennial,  human  interests.  Religion  and 
patriotism  relative  to  the  drama.  Ceremonial  display  at  the  great 
Dionysia  analogous  to  the  Mediaeval  liturgical  offices  of  Whitsuntide 
and  Corpus  Christi  Day.  Consequence  of  the  growing  disbelief  in  the 
primitive  religion.  Effects  of  comedy  on  the  serious  purpose  of  earlier 
Greek  dramatists.  Adaptations  of  the  New  Greek  comedy  in  Rome. 
The  Mimes  and  the  Roman  Stage.  The  Tribune  of  Pleasures.  Ethics 
of  the  stage  at  its  decline.  Disintegration  of  the  theatre  in  the 
Ostrogothic  and  Western  Empire.  Dramatics  during  the  earlier 
centuries  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Origin  of  the  Modern  drama.  The 
mind  of  the  early  Church  toward  the  theatre.  Adaptability  of 
Christianity  to  pagan  society.  Desire  of  the  dramatic  natural  to 
man.  The  passion  for  spectacula  at  Rome.  Tertullian's  opposition. 
Elaborate  celebration  of  the  Christian  mysteries  intended  to  offset 
the  old  Tables  of  Pleasures.  What  is  implied  by  the  statement  that 
the  Gothic  drama  had  its  beginning  in  the  liturgical  offices  of  the 
Mediaeval  Church.  The  dramatic  quality  of  these  offices.  The 
variety  of  influences  that  have  contributed  to  the  origin  and  develep- 
ment  of  the  Gothic  drama.  Mimes  and  Mediaeval  minstrelsy.  The 
study  of  the  Roman  playwrights  in  reference  to  the  origin  of  the 
Modern  drama.  Hroswitba,  Christas  Padens;  Ludus  de  Sancta 
Katharina.  The  source  that  contributed  most  directly  to  the  forma- 
tion of  a  Mediaeval  drama 17 

CHAPTER  II— Characterization  in  itself  and  in  its  Relations 
to  other  Dramatic  Elements 

Conception  of  a  purely  intellectual  nature  apart  from  its  personality. 
Human  nature  in  its  concrete,  actual  existence  inseparable  from 
personality  which  adds  to  it  the  positive  perfection  of  self-movement. 
Character  the  sura  of  man's  quaHties,  the  outcome  of  the  united 
nature  and  personality  acting  as  a  whole,  reasoning,  willing  and  feel- 
ing. What  characterization  is  not ;  what  it  means  to  characterize. 
Unity  of  purpose  and  aim  in  the  treatment  of  the  caste.  Shake- 
speare's achievement  in  the  presentation  of  his  persons  the  criterion 
for  all  dramatists.  Difference  between  the  words  "personality"  and 
"character;"  reasons  why  the  former  is  preferable  when  speaking  of 
the  Mediaeval  drama.  The  early  Gothic  playwright's  view  of  dra- 
matic action.  His  effort  to  embody  aspirations  of  the  mind.  Points 
of  similarity  between  his  work  and  that  of  Marlowe  and  Shakespeare. 
Shakespeare's  "unassailable  supremacy  "  springing  from  the  versatile 
workings  of  his  insight  and  intellect.     Shakespeare  "  the  direct  heir" 


VI 

of  the  Mediaeval  playwright.  Arrangement  of  stage  -  structure  and 
Mediaeval  cosmic  belief  Fate  versus  character.  The  proper  angle  of 
vision  to  study  the  dramatic  efforts  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  sense  of 
personality  and  responsibility.  Conditions  that  facilitated  a  concrete 
presentation  of  the  Mediaeval  caste.  Tlie  design  to  reproduce  man 
as  a  whole — reasoning,  willing  and  feeling.  The  consciousness  of 
self  as  a  centre  of  moral  retribution  an  essential  fundament  of  all 
dramatic  action.  Freytag's  definition  of  dramatic  action.  The 
difference  between  characterization  in  the  drama  and  that  in  the  epic 
or  novel.  Effectiveness  of  suggestion  in  the  play  generally  ignored  by 
the  early  plawright.  Attention  to  details  of  his  theme  weakens  dra- 
matic effect.  Pre -Elizabethan  dramatist's  idea  of  characterization 
substantially  similar  to  that  of  his  successors.  Growth  in  power  of 
character -treatment — choice  of  the  dramatic  in  the  life  of  the  hero: 
attention  to  motives  rather  than  the  acts,  as  such;  abiding  passion  for 
realistic  presentation.  Characterization  the  reason  of  all  dramatic 
progression.  Presence  of  other  elements  in  the  Mediaeval  drama  and 
their  respective  relations  to  the  caste      -       -       -       -       -       -       -         30 

CHAPTER  III— Character-Treatment  in  the  I^iturgical  Drama. 

Dramatic  elements  in  the  Liturgical  Offices.  The  symbolical  charac- 
ter of  the  Liturgy.  The  effort  to  supplement  faith  by  bringing  under 
the  preception  of  the  senses  as  much  of  the  mystical  liturgy  as  possi- 
ble. The  Ritual  expressed  in  action  the  thought  of  the  mind.  The 
simplicity  of  the  Sacred  drama  at  the  beginning.  The  Trope.  An 
Easter  celebration  of  the  tenth  century  at  Winchester.  The  nature 
of  dramatic  development  from  the  tenth  to  the  thirteenth  century. 
A  representative  Resurrection  Office.  Importance  of  the  feasts  of 
Easter  and  Christmas  in  the  history  of  the  early  drama.  A  Christ- 
mas play  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  Liturgical  repertory  viewed 
historically;  its  literary  and  dramatic  value.  Characterization  in 
part  not  dependent  in  the  literary  quality  of  a  play.  The  possibility 
of  a  literary  Liturgical  drama.  Why  so  little  apparently  character-* 
istic  of  Mediaevalism  is  perpetuated  in  the  dramatic  material  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Advantages  of  architectural  remains  over  dramatic. 
Circumstances  which  give  meaning  to  words.  The  musical  quality  of 
Mediaeval  Sequences.  The  Operatic  character  of  the  Liturgical  drama 
generally.  The  difficulty  of  reproducing  a  Mediaeval  milieu.  Atti- 
tude of  the  Mediaeval  workman  toward  his  work.  The  spiritual 
perception  of  the  Mediaeval  mind — recognition  of  this  important  in 
an  estimate  of  character -treatment  in  the  religious  drama.  The  part 
of  the  Mediaeval  audience.  Unfeigned  naturalness  of  actors.  The 
Mediaeval  caste  and  the  Bible.  Jesus,  in  person  or  ip  spirit,  the  central 
figure  or  informing  principle  of  every  action.  The  Liturgical  scenes 
leave  in  the  mind  an  after-image,  concrete  and  characteristic,  pos- 
sessing remarkable  prespective  and  fulness.  The  condition  of  further 
advance  in  dramatic  persentation  depended  on  change' of  form  less 
than  in  change  of  subject-matter.  The  influence  of  Humanism  on  the 
stage.  In  what  way  were  the  dramatic  species  which  followed  the 
Liturgical  drama  in  advance  of  it?  New  devices  of  workmanship  to 
secure  a  novel  presentation  of  the  caste.  The  beginning  of  the  Chroni- 
cle Play.  The  Liturgical  drama  the  root  whence  later  dramatic  forms 
developed.  The  cosmopolitan  nature  of  the  Mediaeval  drama.  The 
introduction  of  the  vernacular  into  the  dialogue.  The  secret  of  lon- 
gevity and  the  comparative  importance  of  the  Liturgical  play        -        41 

CHAPTER  IV  — Character -Treatment  in  the  Cyclic  Drama. 

The  transition  of  the  stage  from  the  Sanctuary  to  the  door  of  the 
Church.  The  relation  of  the  Cyclic  plays  to  the  Liturgical  drama. 
The  mean  between  the  religious  and  secular  drama  illustrated  in  the 


Til 


Cycle  -  species.  A  greater  freedom  and  variety  in  the  presentation  of 
the  Cyclic  caste  than  in  the  earlier  sanctuary  scenes.  Comparative 
tables  to  vshow  the  playwright's  unity  of  design  in  the  treatment  of  his 
theme.  The  tendency  noticeable  in  the  Liturgical  drama  9f  grouping 
cognate  incidents  around  the  central  action  is  more  evident  in  the 
work  of  the  Cyclic  writer.  In  the  Cycles  the  points  of  dramatic  inter- 
est centre  in  the  historical  facts  of  the  Nativity  and  Crucifixion  of  our 
Saviour.  Beyond  the  presentation  of  the  historical  events  is  the  de- 
velopment of  the  idea  of  struggle  between  the  powers  of  good  and  evil. 
The  symbolism  of  the  Cycles  important  in  the  treatment  of  the  Bibli- 
cal caste.  The  apologetic  purpose  of  the  author  contributed  to  unity 
of  purpose  and  distinctiveness  of  definition.  Freedom  of  the  play- 
wright particularly  with  his  uncanonical  material.  The  structure 
and  presentation  of  the  separate  scenes  must  not  be  dissociated 
from  the  larger  view  of  the  relation  and  interdependence  of  plays  on 
one  another.  A  study  of  character -treatment  in  this  species  of 
drama  makes  it  appear  that  a  complexus  of  influences  have  been  at 
work  in  the  reproduction  of  the  Biblical  personages.  York  Cycle 
representative  of  the  English  Cyclic  series.  Its  dramatic  value  and 
historic  interest.  Opening  pageant  a  tripartite  pl.^y  of  160  lines  in 
all  —  a  favorable  specimen  of  the  Mediaeval  dramatist's  power  of  con- 
trast. The  first  three  pageants  of  the  York  Cycle  treat  of  tbe  works 
of  creation;  the  subsequent  nine  of  selected  topics  from  the  Apocrypha 
and  the  Old  Testament  History.  In  these  and  those  that  immedi- 
ately follow  the  foremost  idea  in  the  composer's  mind  is  the  redemp- 
tion of  fallen  man  and  the  lasting  triumph  of  good  over  evil.  The 
author's  choice  of  subjects  illustrative  of  this  statement.  The 
Annunciation  and  the  Visit  of  Mary  connects  the  Old  Testament 
series  with  the  New.  The  reference  to  prophecy  to  fill  up  the  gap 
between  the  Exodus  and  the  Annunciation.  The  importance  of  tli»*se 
connecting  scenes  to  show  the  dramatic  purpose  of  the  writer.  The 
intrinsic  interest  of  the  ten  plays  relative  to  the  hidden  life  of  Christ. 
The  inference  from  their  position  in  the  arrangement  of  the  Cycle. 
The  enlivening  admixture  of  sadness  and  joy,  success  and  failure, 
characteristic  of  the  ten  scenes,  analogous  to  the  underlying  conflict 
between  the  two  great  combatants.  The  variety  of  attitudes  in  which 
the  spectator  sees  the  hero  before  the  climax  an  instance  of  the  play- 
wright's effort  to  realize  the  personality  entire.  In  the  choice  and 
arrangement  of  material  the  author  proves  an  independence  of  his 
sources.  Assimilation  of  the  matter;  the  logical  rise  in  the  action; 
discriminating  management  of  interims;  the  silent  logic  of  precedent 
action;  the  tragic  literalness  of  the  climax  —  instances  of  native  dra- 
matic ability.  The  treatment  of  the  conspirators;  the  characters  of 
Pilate,  Caiaphas,  Beadle,  Soldiers,  etc.  Mary  on  Calvary.  The 
climacteric  nature  of  the  Harrowing  of  Hell.  The  Marian  plays  — 
their  complementary  character.  The  Doomsday  Pageant  —  an  end 
to  the  strife  between  the  righteous  and  the  wicked  An  estimate  of 
the  dramatic  worth  of  the  York  series  of  plays.  The  playwright's 
processes.  The  summed  qualities  of  the  respective  characters  reached 
not  so  much  by  the  analysis  of  dominant  motives  as  by  multiplicitv 
of  external  detail.  Suggestiveness  of  these  details.  The  oneness  of 
mood  aad  sympathy  in  actor*a,nd  audience  helpful  to  dramatic  inter- 
ests. The  distinctness  with  which  the  figures  are  drawn.  The  celes- 
tial atmosphere  which  surrounds  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  Gospel; 
the  poetry  and  sentiment  so  delicately  expressed  by  the  evangelists 
are  literary  rather  than  dramatic  qualities.  The  human  qualities  of 
Christ  rather  than  his  divine  attributes  are  emphasized  by  th**  play- 
wright. The  twofold  life  of  Christ  in  the  York  series.  Significance 
of  illusion  in  bringing  to  light  latent  mainsprings  of  action.  The 
effort  of  the  playwright  to  bring  into  relief  the  living  form  of  the 
central  figure  in  the  Cycle.  Joseph  and  Mary.    Advantages  coming  to 


Vlll 

the  playwright  by  reason  of  the  Cyclic  or  serial  arrangment  of  the 
matter.  A  non- cyclic  play.  The  psychological  character  and  dra- 
matic effectiveness  of  the  Brome  Abraham  and  Isaac.  The  begin- 
nings of  comedy  and  tragedy.  The  importance  of  the  comic  element 
in  the  religious  drama.  Comedy  in  the  Cycles  and  early  romantic 
theatre.  Germinations  of  tragi-  comedy  apparent  in  the  Cycles.  The 
Towneley  pageant  of  Cain  and  Abel.  The  fashioning  of  a  new  stage- 
machine  by  a  born  playwright 64 

CHAPTER    V— Character -Treatment   in    the  Moral    Play. 

Growth  of  preceding  dramatic  species  into  the  Moral  play.  Influence 
of  Cyclic  drama  on  the  subsequent  stage.  The  nature  of  the  moral 
play.  Allegory  in  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages.  To  what  extent 
were  the  Moralities  in  advance  of  the  Cycle  dramas?  Distinction 
between  the  earlier  and  later  plays  of  the  moral  type.  Effects  of 
Humanism  on  the  stage.  Origin  of  fourteenth  -  century  Moral  play 
referred  to  the  allegorical  religious  literature  and  court -poetry  of  the 
eleventh  century.  Specific  difference  between  the  earlier  and  later 
Moralities.  A  contemporary  view  of  the  function  of  allegory  in  the 
drama.  Action  of  the  Moral  play  in  root  closely  akin  to  the  argu- 
ment of  the  Cycles.  The  relative  values  of  the  character.  The  hero's 
freedom  of  action;  the  minor  characters  picture  in  a  sensible  manner 
the  psychic  activities  going  on  within  the  hero.  The  playwright's 
aim  to  give  concrete  dramatic  expression  to  the  root  -  principles  of 
ethical  life.  The  oldest  Morality  extant  illustrative  of  the  writer's 
view  of  the  purposes  of  the  stage.  The  relation  of  the  argument  of  , 
the  Castle  of  Perseverance  to  Calderon's  Los  Encantos  de  la  Culpa, 
and  Marlowe's  Dr.  Faustus.  Mundus  et  Infans  illustrates  the 
author's  efforts  at  a  presentation  which  is  at  once  didactic,  entertain- 
ing and  dramatic.  Everyman  a  favorable  specimen  of  the  Morality 
species.  Sources  of  the  play.  Situation  more  a  dramatic  episode 
than  a  dramatic  action.  The  processes  of  the  playwright;  his  origi- 
nality and  power  of  suggestion.  Creative  part  in  the  Moral  plays  — 
motive,  situation,  incident  and  intrigue  at  the  disposal  of  the  play- 
wright. Mankynde,  a  transition  drama.  It  has  not  the  breadth  of 
action,  which  is  the  main  defect  of  the  Castle  of  Perseverance  and 
Mundus  et  Infans,  neither,  on  the  other  hand,  is  it  reduced  to  the 
episodic  proportion  oi  Everyman.  The  conscious  effort  to  enliven  the 
serious  lesson  which  he  intends  to  convey.  Tytivillus.  The  play- 
wright's attempt  to  furnish  an  adequate  motive  for  the  hero's 
actions,  Mankynde  of  the  earlier  Moralities  comes  close  on  the 
Renaissance  or  Humanistic  varieties  of  the  Allegorical  drama.  The 
later  developments  of  the  Moral  play.  Several  varieties  of  dramatic 
activity.  Interest  of  the  playwright  in  the  details  of  his  theme.  The 
stage  in  the  interests  of  secular  learning.  Plays  representative  of  a 
large  class  of  dramatic  writings  which  mark  the  passing  away  of 
allegory  and  the  introduction  of  real  life  on  the  stage.  John  Hey- 
wood,  a  type  of  the  Mediaeval  dramatist.  His  work  a  transition 
stage  between  the  Mediaeval  and  Elizabethan.  Hey  wood's  influence 
on  English  comedy.  His  dramatic  animation  and  successful  delinea- 
tion of  character  prove  his  kinship  to  Chaucer.  Hey  wood's  manner 
of  writing  combined  with  the  widespreading  Humanism  weakened 
the  influence  of  Mediaeval  dramatic  motives.  John  Bale.  His  "  his- 
toric sense"  and  the  importance  of  his  work  relative  to  the  Chronicle 
play. — Summary  -       -        , 118 

INDEX 173 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 177 


INTRODUCTION 

The  more  criticism  agrees  that  literature  is  the  natural  expres- 
sion of  life  the  more  consistently  does  it  urge  that  to  understand 
an  author  we  should  fill  around  him,  as  fully  as  may  be,  the 
numerous  contingencies  which  have  influenced  his  conduct.  It 
recognizes  the  determining  power  of  an  author's  education  and  the 
part  that  current,  popular  ideals  have  in  the  formation  of  the  most 
original  temperament.  It  takes  into  account  that  subtle  motive 
power  which  unconscious  experiences  possess  in  active  operations  of 
the  mind.  For  it  no  detail  is  insignificant;  the  most  reflexive 
movement  of  his  times  will  clear  up  the  author's  thought  far  more 
vividly  than  pages  of  his  text.  Our  judgment  of  a  writer  will  be 
trustworthy  in  so  far  as  we  project  ourselves  into  his  surroundings 
and  see  life  as  he  saw  it.  Otherwise  our  estimate  of  him  will  be 
merely  impressionistic,  and  based  on  appearances,  not  evidence. 
All  this  is  but  a  paraphrasing  of  what  is  rapidly  becoming  a  liter- 
ary axiom :     Nothing  between  us  and  the  author. 

To  say  that  in  all  cases  it  is  useful  to  understand  a  writer's 
traditions  and  environment  if  we  would  duly  appreciate  his  work, 
when  it  is  question  of  a  dramatic  writer  we  must  emphasize  the 
necessity  of  this  knowledge.  Our  knowledge  of  him  in  his  drama- 
tic relations  and  of  his  audience  should  be  as  intimate  as  possible. 
No  art,  no  form  of  literature  has  so  immediately  for  its  motive 
the  expression  of  life  as  the  drama.  Only  the  drama  proposes  to 
reproduce  life,  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature. 

However  unprofitable  the  preparatory  task  may  seem  in  itself, 
every  effort  that  helps  to  build  up  the  background  of  a  great 
literary  figure  and  to  set  the  poet  in  his  proper  perspective,  has 
importance.  To  begin  the  study  of  Shakespeare's  plays  without 
an  understanding  to  some  degree  of  the  dramatic  activity  among  his 
contemporaries  and  before  his  time  would  be  to  place  a  very  positive 
barrier  between  us  and  the  poet  and  so  prevent  an  intelligent 
appreciation  of  his  extraordinary  worth.  "To  suppose,"  says 
Courthope,  "that  the  single  efforts  of  meditation  in  any  one  man 
could  have  invented  a  structure  so  comprehensive  and  various  as 
the  romantic  drama,  is  the  height  of  critical  superstition;  on  the 
other  hand,  a  knowledge  of  the  manner  in  which  Shakespeare  drew 

ix 


suggestions  of  dramatic  action  and  character  from  his  predecessors 
and  contemporaries  can  only  serve  to  heighten  our  admiration  for 

the  incomparable  resources  of    his  genius The  genius  of 

Shakespeare  is  not  well  served  by  those  who  represent  it  as  miracu- 
lous. For  not  only  is  injustice  thus  done  to  the  lesser  fellow- 
workers  who  contributed  with  him  to  the  developement  of  his  art, 
but  the  vastness  of  his  own  intellect  and  the  grand  balance  of  his 
judgement  are  not  fully  appreciated  till  they  are  seen  in  their 
relations  to  his  surroundings."* 

So  much  excellent  and  minute  work  has  been  done  on  the 
Shakespearean  school  that  one  would  wish  an  equal  zeal  had  been 
manifested  toward  the  earlier  pre  -  Elizabethan  drama.  Only 
within  recent  years  has  any  interest  been  shown  in  the  dramatic 
life  and  efforts  of  the  four  hundred  years  which  preceded  the  six- 
teenth century.  This  long  epoch  in  the  life  of  the  drama  has  been 
hurriedly  passed  over,  writers  speak  most  generally  of  it,  and  in 
their  impatience  to  deal  with  the  classic  ages  of  Elizabeth  and 
James,  they  give  but  scant  attention  to  this  earlier  period.  Much, 
comparatively,  is  now  being  done  to  reproduce  the  theatre  of 
Shakespeare's  ancestors  from  a  social,  historical  and  philological 
point  of  view.  Certainly  the  value  of  these  studies  in  orientating 
Shakespearean  students  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated.  The 
results  of  their  labor  give  proof  of  what  I  am  implying  in  these 
paragraphs,  that  much  which  is  important  in  Shakespeare  can  not  be 
adequately  explained  without  reference  to  his  remote  antecedents. 
I  find  no  author,  however,  the  scope  of  whose  work  might  engage 
him  any  more  than  incidentally  with  what  forms  the  main  purpose  of 
these  pages.  Mj^  aim  is  to  treat  of  the  characterization,  or  perhaps, 
better  said,  the  character  -  etching  in  the  early  English  Drama. 

At  the  outset  of  an  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  character-treat- 
ment in  the  mediaeval  drama  it  may  be  well  briefly  to  determine 
what  is  connoted  by  the  term  ' '  character ' '  itself.     The  word  is  so 


♦  A  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  II,  chap.  11,  pp.  131-132. 
*'  Untaught,  unpracticed  in  a  barbarous  age, 
I  found  not,  but  created  first  the  stage." 
In  putting  these  words  into  the  mouth  of  Shakespeare's  Ghost,  Drjden  was 
wrong,  at  least  in  principle;  how  much  he  erred  in  fact  may  appear  later. 
Shakespeare  did  not  create  the  stage,  least  of  all  did  he  create  it  as  it  appeared 
in  the  time  of  Dryden.    "It  was,  in  truth  created  by  no  one  man,  and  in  no 
one  age;  and  whatever  improvements  Shakespeare  introduced  when  he  began 
to  write  for  the  theatre  our  romantic  drama  was  completely  formed  and 
finally  established."     Cf.  Collier,  History  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry,  etc., 
Vol.  I,  p.  9. 


XI 


bound  up  with  the  names  of  Shakespeare's  creations  that,  except 
for  the  many  with  whom  the  after-image  of  last  evening's  calcium- 
lit  caste  still  abides  in  the  memory,  I  fancy  the  term  is  so  enshrined 
in  some  minds  as  to  be  altogether  sacred  to  the  Poet's  persons. 
Indiscriminate  usage,  on  the  other  hand,  has  so  cheapened  the 
word  that  in  current  speech  it  is  quite  devoid  of  a  precise  and 
accepted  meaning.  It  is  applied  without  qualification  to  the 
posture  -  maker  and  entertainer  in  the  vaudeville,  to  the  parts  of 
the  present-day  drama,  and  to  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  Shake- 
speare. Whatever  justification  or  sanction  there  may  be  for  this 
inaccurate  use  of  the  word,  it  is  certain  that  in  its  secondary  and 
popular  sense,  the  term  character  does  not  convey  adequately  the 
leading  idea  connoted  by  its  primary  signification. 

In  this  essay  I  shall  have  to  do  solely  with  the  primary  mean- 
ing of  the  word  —  the  meaning  one  attaches  to  it  when  he  speaks  of 
Shakespeare's  persons. 

"Shakespeare's  mind,  as  Hazlitt  has  suggested,  contained 
within  itself  the  germs  of  all  faculty  and  feeling,  He  knew  intuit- 
ively how  every  faculty  and  feeling  would  develop  in  any  con- 
ceivable change  of  fortune.  Men  and  women  —  good  and  bad,  old 
or  young,  wise  or  foolish,  rich  or  poor,  merry  or  sad,  yielded  their 
secrets  to  him  and  his  genius  enabled  him  to  give  being  in  his 
pages  to  all  the  shapes  of  humanity  that  present  themselves  on  the 
highway  of  life.  Each  of  his  characters  gives  voice  to  thought 
or  passion  with  an  individuality  and  a  naturalness  that  arouse  in 
the  intelligent  playgoer  and  reader  the  illusion  that  they  are  over- 
hearing men  and  women  speak  unpremeditatingly  among  them- 
selves rather  than  they  are  reading  written  speeches  or  hearing 
written  speeches  recited.  The  more  closely  the  words  are  studied 
the  completer  the  illusion  grows."* 

It  has  been  justly  said  that  the  unassailable  supremacy  of 
Shakespeare  came  not  from  technique  but  from  the  unerring  pre  - 
cision  with  which  he  interpreted  thought  and  emotion.  On  his 
insight  into  the  laws  that  govern  the  will  and  feelings  of  mankind, 
as  well  as  in  the  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  prerogative  of  human 
personality  and  the  sanction  of  human  conduct  —  on  this  basis,  all 
readers  perceive,  that  the  greatness  of  his  power  in  character- 
treatment  rests.  But  in  the  drama  before  Shakespeare's  time  do  not 
like  ideas  seem  to  occupy  the  playwright's  attention?     Shakespeare 


*  Sidney  Lee,  A  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  356. 


xu 

is  called  by  Sepet  "the  direct  heir  of  the  mediaeval  playwright."* 
And  the  Poet's  work  is  said  by  M.  Jusserand  to  be  "the  highest 
expression  of  the  dramatic  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages."t  With 
due  allowance  for  its  embryonic  and  infantine  condition,  I  think 
that  without  overreaching  facts  any  more  than  is  implied  in  the  text, 
or,  at  least,  in  the  evident  motive  of  the  playwright  as  may  be 
legitimately  inferred  from  collateral  sources,  one  will  find  that  the 
earliest  English  dramatists  labored,  instinctively  no  doubt,  to  plant 
on  the  stage  those  very  root  -  principles  that  took  shape  slowly  and 
irregularly  through  the  successive  efforts  of  after- workers. 

From  the  beginning  the  drama  sought  to  give  expression,  first, 
to  the  religious  aspirations  of  the  people  in  supplementing  the  ritual 
services.  This  may  be  called  the  Liturgical  drama.  Next,  it 
presents  in  a  measure,  the  ethical  history  of  mankind,  the  origin  of 
evil,  its  relation  to  good,  and  the  struggle  between  both  powers 
relative  to  the  human  race — this  is  perceptible  in  the  Cycle-scenes. 
And,  lastly,  the  same  ethical  idea,  whose  origin  and  life  was  shown 
in  the  preceding  drama,  is  now  brought  into  closer  relation  with 
the  individual  man  so  that  he  is  no  longer  a  passive,  though  all  the 
while  the  deeply  interested  spectator  of  the  struggle,  but  is  become 
the  very  centre  of  the  activity,  and,  with  him  rests  the  issue  of  the 
conflict  between  the  rival  forces  of  good  and  evil — this  was  the 
argument  of  the  Moral  plays.  Under  these  three  heads.  The 
lyiturgical  Drama,  Biblical  Cycles,  and  Moral  Plays,  one  may  see,  I 
think,  the  distinguishing  spontaneities  of  childhood,  not  yet  lost  in 
the  more  self-conscious  efforts  of  a  later  age.  And  just  as  in  the 
history  of  the  mind  of  a  child  no  absolute  time  can  be  fixed  at 
which  a  certain  mental  function  takes  its  rise,  so  in  the  drama, 
which  is  to  an  extent  organic  in  its  evolution,  no  definite  species  or 
phase  of  dramatic  growth  can  be  assigned  a  particular  epoch  or  func- 
tion. Only  in  broad  outline  and  by  the  widest  generalizations  can 
such  periods  and  processes  be  marked  off.  For  this  reason,  once 
the  nature  of  Shakespeare's  supremacy  is  understood  one  is  naturally 
led  to  inquire  if  any  of  his  distinguishing  traits  were  noticeable  in 
his  ancestors.  With  the  view  of  ascertaining  one  line  of  family 
resemblance,  I  propose  to  indicate  in  the  earliest  attempts  at  dramatic 
expression  in  England  the  playwright's  effort  to  present  on  the 
stage    the  activity  of  the  human  faculties — reason,    will  and   per- 


*  M.  Sepet,  "Le  Drame  Chretien  au  Moyen-Age,"  p.  55. 

t  J.  J.  Jusserand,  "Le  Theatre  en  Angleterre,  etc."  pp.  310-311. 


XUl 

ception,  —  as  seen  in  their  moral  bearing  on  the  individual's  life 
in  the  light  of  mediaeval  Christianity.  This  may  help  to  show  in 
what  sense  the  Shakespearean  play  is  the  ' 'highest  expression  of 
the  mediaeval  spirit";  and  the  relative  distinctness  and  relief  in 
which  this  presentment  stands  will  enable  us  to  form  an  estimate  of 
the  character-etching  in  the  pre- Elizabethan  drama. 

A  detailed  history  of  the  Mediaeval  Stage,  it  would  seem, 
should  accompany  any  useful  account  of  character-treatment  in  the 
beginnings  of  the  English  drama.  The  emphasis,  accuracy  and 
conciseness  that  a  minute  historical  portrait  would  give  to  our  ideas 
on  this  subject,  no  one  will  doubt.  In  no  clearer  form  may  the 
past  be  viewed  than  in  the  living  picture  which  the  full  know- 
ledge of  details  enables  the  historian  to  create.  To  study  in  detail 
the  conventions  of  the  stage,  to  watch  in  the  laboratory  of  the  play- 
wright, to  see  the  actors  in  their  roles  and  notice  effects  on  the 
spectators,  this  is  but  part  of  his  work.  The  historian's  further  task 
is  this;  from  the  various  multiplicity  of  ideas,  impressions,  repre- 
sentations and  facts  he  has  to  sort,  sift  and  combine  till,  as  far  as 
may  be,  he  has  reproduced  in  its  wonderful  unity  and  harmonious 
adjustment,  as  in  a  composite  photograph,  the  multiform  existence 
of  mediaeval  centuries.  His  primary  purpose,  says  Brunetiere,  is 
not  merely  to  have  us  understand  the  past,  we  must  feel  it  as  we  do 
the  actual  present.* 

Such  an  exhaustive  history  of  the  early  English  drama  would 
include  a  history  of  dramatic  characterization,  but  happily  the  con- 
verse is  not  so  strictly  implied.  To  explain  the  growth  of  character 
presentation  in  our  religious  drama  will,  however,  involve  some 
account  of  the  beginnings  of  the  theatre  in  England,  of  its  religious 
growth,  of  its  secular  formation  and  of  the  many  transformations 
of  a  religious  nature  that  it  underwent  before  its  final  and  to 
some  extent,  immutable  form  in  the  works  of  the  writers  of  purely 
secular  plays.  As  confusion  is  often  the  outcome  of  an  effort  to  be 
complete,  if  only  typical  plays  be  chosen  one  may  hope  to  hold  the 
various  indices  of  character-treatment  apart  and  in  separating  the 
essentials  of  character  -  growth  from  accidental  influences,  arrive 
at  two  or  three  inferences  which  if  true  for  the  typical  dramas  will 
be  true  to  a  degree  of  all  the  rest.  By  typical  plays  I  would 
mean  those  plays  that  in  some  sort  may  be  said  to  have  resumed  the 
past  of  the  stage  and  are  at  the  same  time  present  witnesses  to   the 


•  L'Bvoltitlon  de  la  Po4iie  Lyrique,  Tome  I,  p.  4. 


XIV 

highest  dramatic  progress.  There  will  be  nutaerous  plays,  conse- 
quently, and  still  more  numerous  characters  of  which  I  shall  have 
nothing  to  saj^  for  the  reason  that  I  deal  only  with  what  may  be 
called  the  different  dramatic  crises  in  the  long  life  of  the  mediaeval 
stage  and  because  there  are  plays  out  of  number  which  in  motive, 
form  and  content  are  largely  but  imitations  of  a  prevailing  type. 

Rather  than  group  the  material  in  a  strictly  chronological 
order  under  the  several  reigns,  it  is  more  convenient  here  to  follow 
the  logical  order  and  study  the  treatment  of  the  characters  in  the 
several  species  of  the  drama  itself.  This  method  enables  one  to  in- 
dicate the  birth,  growth,  perfection,  decadence,  and  transformation 
of  the  respective  species,  and  the  final  absorption  of  the  mediaeval 
by  the  Elizabethan  drama. 

Without  considering  carefully  its  many  phases  one  is  likely  to 
be  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  the  early  pre- Elizabethan  drama. 
This  is  particularly  true  from  the  view  point  of  character  -  treat- 
ment. Whether  we  consider  the  modern  drama  a  direct  organic 
development  of  the  mediaeval,  or  look  upon  the  Italian  drama  of 
Renaissance  as  the  source  of  the  Elizabethan  tragedy  and  comedy,* 
in  either  case  we  have  what  seems  to  be  a  native  growth  in  power 
of  character-presentation.  The  aggressive  and  venturesome  original- 
ity in  the  treatmemt  of  old  themes  at  different  epochs,  the  constant 
efforts  toward  the  adaptation  of  subject-matter  with  circumstances, 
and  finally  at  the  awakening  of  interest  in  Humanistic  studies,  the 
wholesale  borrowings  of  incidents  from,  abroad  and  the  attempted 
application  of  Roman  technique  to  this  foreign  material — in  a  word, 
from  the  monk  to  the  classicist  or  theorist,  the  ever -varying 
attitude  of  the  playwright  toward  his  story  marks  a  change  in  his 
characters.  For  a  period  longer  than  the  centuries  which  separate  us 
from  the  days  of  Shakespeare  the  subject-matter  of  the  early  drama 
was  subtantially  the  same,  consequently  the  necessary  novelty  and 
variety  should  come  from  the  treatment  of  the  familiar  caste.  From 
the  beginning  the  dramatist  understood  the  neccessity  of  a  realistic 
presentation;  often  one  would  think  he  understood  no  other  dramatic 
law.  For  him  his  presentation  should  be  the  reproduction  of  life 
and  the  more  artfully  and  realistically  he  reproduced  life  the  surer 
his  success.     Characterization  was  the  touchstone  of  his  power. 


*  J.  J.  Jusserand,  Le  Theatre  en  Angleterre,  etc.,  pp.  307-315. 
J.  Churton  Collins,  Essays  and  Studies,  pp,  124,  115-116. 
J.  S.  Tunison,  Dramatic  Traditions  of  the  Dark  Ages,  pp.  61-64  and  Chap. 
IV.  247-334. 


CHAPTER    L 

CERTAIN    ANALOGIES    BETWEEN    THE    GREEK    AND 

THE  EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMA:   ORIGIN  OF 

THE  MODERN  DRAMA. 

Song  and  dance  have  entered  largely  into  the  public  worship 
of  peoples.  Before  formal  cults  existed  spontaneous  liturgies  were 
enacted  in  presence  of  the  Deity;  choruses  sang  his  victories  or 
sought  His  favor  and  the  "mirth  of  feete"  testified  to  the  joy  of 
heart  that  his  benefits  had  brought.  It  was  so  in  Greece  before 
the  days  of  her  poets.  Alcman  was  not  yet  bom  when  the  men  and 
maidens  of  Sparta  sang  before  the  Carneian  Apollo  the  sacred  laws 
of  Lacedaemon.  At  Corinth  a  chorus  wound  around  the  altar  of 
Dionysus,  singing  the  dithyrambs  of  Arion,  and  in  Athens  at  the 
great  Dionysia  a  dithyrambic  chorus  was  added  to  the  other 
exercises  in  honor  of  the  Wine -god.  With  Arion  and  Thespis 
choruses  impersonated  satyrs  or  goats,  and  by  this  easy  transition 
the  religious  song  and  dance  of  primitive  times  passed  into  the 
tragedy,  which  was  itself  primarily  an  act  of  worship. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  Greek  theatre.  It  was 
intimated  in  that  early  artless  expression  of  popular  feeling  which 
is  the  dramatic  material  common  to  every  people.  From  the 
earliest  times  it  appealed  to  those  perennial,  human  interests  which 
are  at  once  universal  and  personal.  The  subjects  dramatized  had  a 
meaning  for  everyone;  none  could  be  indifferent  to  the  history  of 
the  great  national  heroes.  No  one  doubted  that  the  epic  warriors 
were  living  with  the  gods  and  still  winning  victories.  By  com- 
memorating the  deeds  of  their  fathers  the  spectators  were  infer- 
entially  contemplating  their  own  destiny;  every  one  saw  a  brilliant 
future  awaiting  himself,  a  life  if  not  so  heroic  as  that  of  his  divine 
ancestors,  a  life  at  all  events  happy  in  their  company.  This  was 
the  ideal  existence  that  the  Greek  theatre  interpreted.  In  its 
developement  and  perfection  it  dealt  with  the  same  lofty  theme.  Of 
the  Greek  drama  it  can  be  justly  said  that  the  beginning  contained 
the  germ  from  which  the  classic  theatre  grew.  The  evolution  was 
in  a  true  sense  organic.     The  heroes  of  the  Epos  lost  more  and 

17 


more  their  divine,  representative  attributes  and  became  persons 
endowed  with  human  characteristics,  so  much  so  that  at  the  period 
of  classical  excellence,  Greek  characters  though  much  less  complex, 
are  as  truly  persons  as  those  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare.* 

Further  on  it  will  appear  how  far  this  is  a  prefiguration  of  the 
beginning  and  growth  of  the  Modern  drama.  ' '  Both  in  its  theo- 
logical beginnings  and  its  didactic  aim  the  history  of  the  English 
drama  offers  a  striking  parallel  to  the  growth  of  the  Attic  stage, 
and  shows  how  general  are  the  laws  which  govern  the  course  of 
human  imagination." f  However  striking  the  parallelism  of  origin 
and  development  may  be,  it  is  only  a  parallelism.  After  the  classic 
period  the  Greek  stage  gradually  declined.  In  time  the  success  of 
Comedy  reacted  perniciously  on  Tragedy.  The  themes  that  the 
earlier  poets  treated  as  sacred  and  historical  were  profaned  by  the 
liberties  of  Aristophanes  and  his  immediate  successors.  The 
heroic  legends  that  Aeschylus  dramatized  and  the  ennobling  intent 
of  his  theatre  were  replaced  by  the  philosophy  of  Epicurus  which 
imitators  of  Menander  diligentissimus  luxuriae  interpres  and  later 
Alexandrian  dramatists  more  or  less  delicately  presented. 

When  the  poets  forgot  the  purpose  of  the  early  masters  and 
neglected  to  set  forth  an  heroic  and  ideal  conception  of  life  which 
would  recall  Troy,  Thebes  or  Marathon,  or  reflect  the  frank, 
hellenic  joy  in  physical  life  and  beauty,  tragedy  and  comedy 
ceased  to  appeal  to  the  national  interest.  The  people  had 
delighted  to  see  their  own  lives  in  the  idealizing  light  of  poetry. 
To  gratify  this  popular  feeling  was  ever  the  purpose  of  the  great 
playwrights.  They  deliberately  aimed  at  regulating  the  pathos 
and  ethos  of  the  city.  Tragedy  should  be  the  imitation  of  a  great, 
probable  action,  not  told  as  in  the  case  of  lyrical  recitals  but  repre- 
sented, which  by  moving  to  fear  and  pity  would  be  conducive  to 
the  purgation  of  these  two  passions  in  the  mind.  J  It  was  believed 
that  from  a  highly-wrought  presentation  of  the  two  basic  passions, 
terror  and  grief,  spectators  would  best  learn  the  nature  of  their 
own  emotions,  the  degree  of  importance  to  be  attached  to  them,  as 
also  the  manner  of  dealing  with  them.  This  persuasion  that  the 
drama  had  a  very  special  and  sacred  mission  to  fulfil  seems  to  have 
affected  permanently  both   the  people  and  the  poets  of  Greece. 


•  Lewis  Campbell,  A  Guide  to  Greek  Tragedy,  pp.  166-167. 
t  W.  J.  Courthope,  A  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I,  p.  393. 
%  Aristotle,  Poetics,  Chap.  VI. 


19 

Even  at  the  period  of  classic  excellence  * '  the  g^eat  imitation  "  is  on 
the  occasion  of  the  feast  and,  if  the  god  is  not  directly  worshiped, 
the  religious  sentiment  everywhere  betokens  respect  for  his  action 
and  presence.  I  need  not  dwell  on  the  analogy  that  here  presents 
itself.  In  the  Mediaeval  drama  and  particularly  in  the  Liturgical 
or  Sanctuary  scenes  one  feels  that  he  is  ever  before  the  altar. 
This  was  the  high  purpose  of  tragedy;  the  end  of  comedy 
was  to  a  great  extent  the  same,  but  it  sought  its  results  in  a 
different  manner.  It  aimed-  consciously  at  being  the  imitation 
not  of  an  ideal  but  of  actual  life;  comedy  should  be  '  *  the  mirror  of 
human  intercourse,  the  expression  of  reality." 

With  this  tendency  to  harmonize  the  subject-matter  of  the  plays 
and  with  the  growing  disbelief  in  the  primitive  religion,  dramatic 
art  degenerated.  It  ceased  to  be  Grecian.  When  the  old  dramatic 
material,  the  heroic  and  sacred  stories,  no  longer  appealed  to  the 
audience,  other  motives  of  interest  were  devised.  The  drama  of 
the  Athenians  could  henceforth  be  appreciated  at  Rome  where 
adaptations  of  the  New  Greek  Comed}^  early  degenerated  into  mere 
farce  and  pantomime.  The  passion  for  this  low  species  of  amuse- 
ment became  so  intense  that  during  the  Empire,  it  may  be  said, 
that  the  mime  held  undisputed  possession  of  the  Roman  stage. 
The  tragedy  and  comedy,  which  were  at  no  time  highly  esteemed, 
now  became  insipid  to  the  popular  taste.  Ammianus  Marcellinus 
relates,  that  at  a  time  when  famine  was  threatening  and  when 
foreigners,  including  professors  of  the  liberal  arts,  were  ordered  to 
withdraw  from  the  city,  three  thousand  dancing  girls  were  allowed 
to  remain.^  The  profession  of  the  stage  had  become  synonomous 
with  the  trade  of  prostitution.  This  the  edict  of  Heliogabalus 
plainly  shows.  The  tyrant  bids:  "  Mimics  adulteris  ea  quae  Solent 
simulatio  fieri,  effici  ad  verum  jussit."t 

In  the  East  as  late  as  the  reign  of  Justinian,  though  a  certain 
emancipation  was  accorded  to  the  actors,  the  theatres,  how- 
ever, retained  the  suggestive  nomenclature  which  implied  that 
the  profession  of  the  mimad  differed  in  little  from  that  of  the 
hetaera. 

In  the  West  the  popular  demand  for  spectacula  continued 
till  the  sixth  century.  After  that  time  the  office  of  Tribune 
of    Pleasures    was    largely    honorary.       The    theatre    had    died 


•  Dill,  Roman  Society  in  the  Last  Century  of  the  Western  Empire,  p.  57. 
t  E.  Du  Meril,  Les  Origines  Latines  du  Theatre  Modem,  p.  6. 


20 

out    and    with    it  ceased    the  worst  social  curse  of  the  I^ower 
Empire.* 

The  attempt  has  been  made  to  trace  the  existence  of  the 
ancient  theatre  from  the  reigns  of  Theodoric  and  Justinian  through 
the  first  centuries  of  the  Middle  Ages.  But  the  result  is  not  con- 
vincing.! The  Ostragoths  had  no  passion  for  the  theatre,  and  the 
invasion  of  the  Saracens  whose  national  spirit  rejected  the  drama 
altogether,  precluded  the  possibility  of  anything  more  than  sporadic 
attempts  at  theatrical  performance  at  Constantinople  or  in  Spain 
during  the  seventh  and  eighth  centuries.  J  Moreover,  in  the  eleventh 
century  when  interest  is  felt  in  dramatic  representation,  it  is  clear, 
from  the  nature  of  the  material  dramatized,  that  a  new  drama  begins 
which  is  rather  a  birth  from  the  ashes  than  an  offshoot  from  the  de- 
cayed trunk.  The  arena  and  the  circus  had  been  forgotten,  and  with 
the  last  of  the  Romans  the  downfall  of  the  theatre  speedily  ensued. 


♦  Dolllnger,  Heldenthum  und  Judenthum,  (1857  ),  p.  726. 

t  Krumbacher,  Gesch,  der  Byzantinischen  Litteratur,  pp.  639-648. 
"Es  mogen  noch  in  6  Jahrhundert  da  und  dort  einzelne  Stiicke  der  neuren 
Komedie  aufgefiihrt  worden  sein ;  diesen  Bemtihungen  machte  aber  die 
einbrechende  Barbarei  bald  ein  Ende,  und  als  einige  Jahrhunderte  spater  die 
Lust  an  der  alten  Litteratur  wieder  zu  erwachen  begann,  batten  sich  die 
kulturellen  Bedingungen  so  sehr  verandert,  dass  an  eine  praktische  Wieder- 
belebung  des  alten  Theaters  nicht  mehr  zu  denken  war,  wie  in  der  Litteratur 
und  im  Gesamtem  Geistesleben,  so  schneidet  auch  in  Theaterwesen  die  dunkle 
Kluft  vom  7-9.,  Jahrhundert  tief  ein  zwischen  Altertum  und  Mittelalter  .  .  . 
Wenn  man  auch  diesen  Veranstaltungen  einen  gewissen  dramatischen  Char- 
akter  nicht  absprechen  kann,  so  sieht  doch  jeder,  der  sehr  will,  dass  alle  diese 
Dinge  nicht  das  Fortleben  eines  wahren  Theaters  in  der  byzantinischen  Zeit 
beweisen  konnen,"  p.  646. 

When  I  wrote  in  the  text  that  the  continuity  of  the  old  drama  was  not 
conclusive,  I  had  in  mind  particularly  the  reasons  furnished  by  Sathas  in  his 
history  of  Byzantine  drama  and  music  (1878).  Krumbacher,  as  cited,  deemed 
the  arguments  of  the  historian  insufficient  to  establish  the  continuity  of  the 
drama,  and  went  on  to  show  by  facts  and  inferences  drawn  from  the  study  of 
Byzantine  literature  that  the  ancient  theatre  did  actually  cease  to  exist.  The 
appearance  of  a  scholarly  work  "Dramatic  Traditions  of  the  Dark  Ages," 
Joseph  S.  Tunison  ( University  of  Chicago  Press,  1907)  brings  much  in  favor 
of  the  thesis  rather  awkwardly  defended  by  Sathas.  Krumbacher  may  in 
places  question  premises  and  inferences  but  he  must  let  pass  the  ingenuity  with 
which  Mr.  Tunison  rounds  his  reasoning.  The  purpose  of  the  study,  which  is 
carried  on  with  gratifying  lucidity,  is  to  "mark  the  process  of  transfer  of 
theatrical  aptitudes  from  the  east  to  the  west  and  from  ancient  to  modern 
times,"  p.  X.  "The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  whatever  value 
the  stage  tradition  had,  which  was  handed  down  by  the  performers  of  religious 
plays  to  the  generation  which  represented  and  enjoyed  the  drama  of  Shake- 
speare, was  ultimately  due  wholly  to  the  uninterrupted  culture  of  Byzantium," 
p.  64.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  Essay  to  go  into  details  on  this  most 
interesting  difficulty.  The  difference  between  the  divergent  opinions  largely 
resolves  itself  into  the  distinction  between  what  is  connoted  by  the  terms 
"eines  wahren  Theaters,"  and  "theatrical  aptitudes." 

t  Ticknor,  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  Vol.  I.  pp.  255  fL 


21 

The  Modern  European,  like  the  ancient  Greek  drama  owes 
its  origin  to  religion.  ''Virtutibus  studuit  qui  voluptatibus 
miscebatur" — this  ideal  set  up  by  Cassiodorus  in  his  exhortation 
to  the  Tribune  of  Pleasures  interprets  the  mind  of  the  early  church 
toward  the  theatre.*  It  was  in  every  way  just  that  ecclesiastical 
authorities  should  look  with  disfavor  on  the  degenerating  Roman 
stage,  and  regard  the  theatre  in  general  as  an  unqualified  evil. 
For,  from  the  very  first  days  of  Christianity — not  to  say  how  much 
earlier — till  the  downfall  of  the  stage  in  the  sixth  century, 
dramatic  art  had  quite  disengaged  itself  from  what  was  carried  on 
in  the  theatre.  "  Under  the  later  Roman  Empire  the  drama  died 
a  natural  death,  not  because  the  Church  condemned  it,  but  by  a 
lust  for  sheer  obscenity  and  bloodshed  which  made  true  dramatic 
writing  impossible,  "f 

As  Christianity,  however,  had  converted  the  pagan  shrines 
into  Sanctuaries  of  the  true  God,  so  would  she  adapt  herself,  by 
virtue  of  the  germ  of  Catholicity  even  then  resident  in  her,  to  the 
actual  conditions  of  social  life.  Whatever  could  be  retained  of  the 
past  she  would  keep;  she  had  no  commission  to  set  herself  wantonly 
against  the  ideas  of  the  people.  She  was  for  the  people  then,  as 
now  and  for  all  times.  Her  adaptability  to  all  classes,  conditions 
and  climes  will  ever  be  a  leading  note  of  her  perennial  life.  J 

Just  as  fittingly,  then,  as  the  new  worship  took  place  in  the 
old  temples  would  dogmatic  teaching  and  moral  precepts  of 
Christianity  find  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  all  men.     There  was  not 


♦  Chambers,  The  Mediaeval  Stage,  Vol.  I,  pp.  229-230.    The  instruction  is 
given  entire. 

t  Pollard,  A.  W.,  English  Miracle  Plays,  Moralities  and  Interludes,  P.  XI. 

t  E.  Du  M^ril,  Les  Origines,  etc.,  pp.  39-4.0. 
Dans  les  religons  qui  se  reservent,  comme  un  privelege,  k  une  caste  plus 
chdre  a  la  divinity,  le  culte  s'exprime  par  des  symboles  imp^n^trables  au 
vulgaire  des  croyants :  dans  celles  que,  sous  pretext  de  les  embellir,  les  imagi- 
nations du  bel  esprit  ont  profondement  alt^r^es,  son  idee  disparait  sous  la 
magnificence  tout  ext^rieure  de  la  forme.  Mais  le  christianisme  n'avait  point 
de  pretentions  aristocratiques :  c'etait  une  religion  universelle  qui  s'adressait 
naivement  a  tous  et  ne  professait  de  preferences  que  pour  les  simples  de  coeur 
et  d'esprit;  il  se  bornait,  dans  ses  ceremonies,  d  rappeler  en  termes  clairs 
I'histoire  de  son  etablissment  et  les  actes  de  son  fondateur.  Dans  le  dcuxieme 
si^cle,  les  intentions  dramatiques  du  culte  aggissaient  sur  sa  forme  et  I'appro- 
priaient  a  sa  pensee:  ....  "Cf.  Oberle,  K.  A."  tjberreste  germanischen 
Heidentums  im  Christentum,  etc.,  pp.  160-167.  Der  Kirche  war  es  nicht 
moglich,  mit  dem  Alten  ganz  zu  brechen.  Es  ist  gut  und  hat  viel  Gutes  .... 
Die  Kirche  hat  aus  dem  Heidentum  nur  das  in  ihren  Kult  aufgenommen,  was 
rein  natiirlich  und  an  sich  wahr  ist.  Eben  darum  spricht  der  Kultus  der 
katholischen  Kirche  zum  Herzen  des  Menschen."  Also  Newman,  "Develop- 
ment of  Doctrine,"  210  ff. 


22 

one  of  her  doctrines  but  followed  along  the  lines  of  highest  human 
development  and  each  was  perfectly  in  accord  with  what  was 
most  rational,  purest  and  best  in  paganism.  As  she  had  never 
taught  that  the  nature  and  passions  of  the  heathen  were  wholly 
corrupt,  her  aim  was  rather  to  divert  than  oppose  directly  the  trend 
of  his  desires.  Accordingly  her  great  concern  in  the  beginning 
was  to  find  a  substitute  for  an  institution  that  had  become  a  most 
attractive  centre  of  Roman  life  as  well  as  the  leading  social 
demoralizing  agency  of  the  times.  No  Christian  conscience  could 
sanction  what  was  taking  place  at  the  theatre.  It  had  become  a 
sanctuary  of  Venus. 

So  the  problem  presented  itself  to  the  infant  Church :  what 
would  take  the  place  of  the  theatre  ?  To  condemn  puritanically 
all  pleasures  of  the  senses  as  sinful  (as  some  heretics  had  done,) 
and  to  insist,  with  Tertullian  that  the  Christian' s  earthly  enjoyment 
should  be  solely  in  the  anticipation  of  the  beauty  and  bliss  of 
heaven,  would  be  to  set  up  an  ideal  standard  which  could  have  little 
practical  effect.  The  question,  therefore,  was  not  how  to  tear  up 
or  radically  to  remove  from  the  constitution  of  man  his  sense  or 
even  his  love  of  earthly  pleasures ;  rather  it  was  this ;  where  might 
the  convert  to  Christianity  find  a  reasonable  satisfaction  of  that 
truly  human  passion  for  social  enjoyment  which  he  had  so  extrava- 
gantly cultivated.  From  the  prohibitions  of  the  Fathers  and 
especially  from  the  work  of  Tertullian  '  *  De  Spectaculis ' '  we  can 
realize  somewhat  how  the  Roman  Christian  felt  when  forbidden 
access  to  pagan  diversions.  Extraordinary  as  it  now  seems  the 
catechuman  had  to  fight  hard  and  long  with  himself  to  overcome 
a  habit  that  heredity,  education  and  personal  indulgence  had 
ingrafted  deeply  in  his  nature.  The  renouncement  was  a  veritable 
sacrifice,  however  little  we  may  now  sympathize  with  the  victim. 
Baptism  meant  a  break  with  the  past;  at  the  font  he  had  to  renounce 
the  devil  and  the  works  of  the  devil  whose  masterpiece  Christian 
and  pagan  moralists  were  agreed,  had  long  been  the  theatre.* 

Quite  apart  from  the  primary  and  dogmatic  ends  of  the  Chris- 
tian cult,  secondarily  or  altogether  incidentally  if  we  will,  one  may 
see  in  the  celebration  of  the  Christian  mysteries,  growing  more  and 
more  elaborate  as  circumstances  permitted,  a  response  to  this 
natural  call  for  life,  for  show  and  ceremony.     There  could  be  no 


Bossier,  G.,  La  Fin  du  Paganisme,  T.  I,  pp.  269-277. 

Freppel,  Tertullien,  T.  I,  pp.  176-220. 

Cumont  Franz,  Les  Misteres  du  Mithra,  pp.  149-176. 


23 

easier  transition  out  of  the  forms  and  customs  of  paganism  than  by 
establishing  Christian  practices  in  their  stead.  In  no  better  way 
can  the  convert  be  made  to  forget  the  old  Tables  of  Pleasures,  the 
seasonal  festivals,  the  commemorations  of  demi-gods  and  goddesses, 
and  those  anniversaries  of  deifications  and  triumphs  which  at  the 
time  had  grown  to  be  of  almost  daily  occurrence.  The  people 
would  more  readily  surrender  their  attachment  to  a  god  or  goddess 
than  give  up  the  manner  of  his  or  her  worship.  A  new  Calendar, 
therefore,  could  replace  the  old.* 

While  it  is  certain  that  the  Christian  Liturgy  was  in  the  main 
the  continuation  of  that  carried  on  in  the  synagogues  of  the  Jews, 
it  can  scarcely  be  doubted,  however,  that  the  Christian  cult,  ever 
enriching,  expanding  and  diversifying  its  services  as  times  per- 
mitted, was  intended  to  counteract  the  heathen  sacrifices  and  cere- 
monies, f  The  feast  of  Christmas  is  an  instance  in  point.  Whatever 
be  the  origin  and  primary  motive  of  this  very  ancient  feast,  it  was 
certainly  a  fitting  substitute  for  the  pagan  festival  in  honor  of  the 
Invincible  Sun  whose  birth-day  was  annually  kept,  according  to 
the  Julian  Calendar  on  the  25th  of  December.  J  In  the  early  Middle 
Ages  among  the  Germanic  peoples  this  coincidence  is  equally  histor- 
ical. The  feast  fell  at  a  time  when  the  northern  tribes  were  wont 
to  celebrate  their  pagan  rites,  and  the  missionaries  prudently  gave 
to  the  traditional  customs  a  Christian  sense  and  direction.  To  this 
feast  and  to  the  ecclesiastical  celebration  at  Kastertide  in  the  ninth 
century,  historians  usually  refer  the  beginnings  of  the  Gothic 
drama.  § 

When  it  is  said  that  the  Gothic  drama  had  its  beginning 
in  the  Liturgical  services  of  the  Mediaeval  Church  no  more  is 
intended  than  what  may  be  reasonably  inferred  from  the  historical 
fact,  that  the  ecclesiastical  offices  of  the  time,  so  rich  in  dramatic 
material  and  so  frequently  acted  before  all  classes  of  society  may  on 


•  Thamin,  St  Ambrose  et  la  Soci^td  Chr^tienne  du  Quatri^me  Si^cle,  p.  125. 

t  Duchense,  L.,  Orignies  der  Culte  Chretien,  p.  45.  Lightfoot,  St.  Cement  of 
Rome,  I.  393. 

t  Shahan,  T.  J.,  The  Beginnings  of  Christianity,  p.  144. 

§  A.  Maury,  Croyancs  et  L^gendes  du  Moyen  Age  (1896),  pp.  394-5,  shows 
how  the  Christian  feasts  of  the  Nativity  and  Resurrection  replaced  seasonal 
gatherings  in  honour  of  tribal  divinities:— "  La  Saint  Jean  correspond  au 
solstice  d'6t6  et  les  Gaulois,  et  les  Germains,  c^ldbraient  k  Tepoque  des  solstices, 
des  fet^s  solennelles.  Ou,  pour  mieux  dire,  il  existait,  chez  les  deux  peuples,  deux 
grandes  {H6s:  celle  d'hiver  qui,  suivant  les  lieux,  varient  de  I'dquinoxe  du 
printemps  au  solstice  d'^t^  c'est-a-dire  de  Paques  k  la  Saint  Jean.  La  f^te  d* 
hiver  s'  appelait  loule,  lole,  ou  loel,  c'est-d-dire  la  fete  du  Soleil." 


24 

this  account  be  justly  regarded  as  the  chief  source  whence  the  Gothic 
drama  drew  its  life.  Nothing  more  exclusive  is  meant.  Other 
sources  there  were  which  might  well,  and  doubtless  did,  contribute 
if  not  to  the  actual  birth  of  a  theatre,  at  least  in  a  secondary,  yet 
none  the  less  positive  way,  to  its  early  cultivation  and  growth. 
They  supplied  the  conditions  without  which  the  germ,  no  matter 
whence  its  origin,  could  not  normally  develop. 

Memories  of  ancient  Rome  lived  long  in  the  imagination  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  Though,  as  was  seen,  the  theatre  of  the  Empire 
and  the  Gothic  kingdoms  had  wrought  its  own  dissolution 
fully  two  centuries*  before  any  very  definite  imitations  of  a  Gothic 
Stage  can  be  noticed,  this  was  not  the  case,  however,  with  the 
actors  of  the  effete  theatre. f  All  through  the  Middle  Ages  there  were 
numbers  of  strolling  players,  mimes  and  joculatores  in  every  country 
of  Kurope;  the  jonglers  in  France  before  the  Conquest  immigrated 
to  England  in  the  suite  of  the  Conqueror,  and  the  native  minstrels 
in  the  Island  were  all  capable  of  furnishing  a  variety  of  dramatic 
amusement  as  they  went  from  town  to  town,  from  castle  to  castle. 
Though  they  enjoyed  no  very  distinguished  reputation,  owing  to 
their  many-sided  talent  in  creating  diversion,  they  managed,  how- 
ever, to  secure  large  audiences.  Many  among  the  higher  class  of 
minstrels  became  permanent  residents  in  the  mansions  of  the 
nobility,  but  the  vast  majority  followed  the  bent  of  their  inclina- 
tions and  showed  their  'maistrie'  preferably  before  the  admiring 
crowds  at  fairs  and  village-greens.  To  these  dramatic  gatherings 
not  a  little  is  due  for  the  rise  and  growth  if  not  for  the  origin,  of 
the  Gothic  drama.  J 


*  Krumbacher,  K.,  Gesch.  der  Byzantimschen  Litteratur,  pp.  639-648. 

t  Mr.  Tunison  in  his  work  on  dramatic  traditions  (Chapter  II  and  III )  has 
valuable  data  on  the  dramatic  impulses  in  religion  and  on  the  mutual  influence 
of  East  and  West  through  the  activity  of  pilgrims  and  actors.  The  religious 
plays  of  Italy  were  not  transferred  into  the  secular  drama  by  Italian  initia- 
tive alone,  but  by  the  help  of  Byzantine  mimes.  (Op.  Cit.  p.  133.)  For  further 
matter  on  this  point  refer  to  Du  Meril,  p.  24  fi",  and  to  J.  J.  Jusserand  'Le 
Theatre  en  Angleterre,  etc.,  (p.  16  ff.)  Mr.  E.  K.  Chambers'  "The  Mediaeval 
Stage"  (pp.  Vol.  I.  pp.  1-70,  24  ff),  furnishes  perhaps  all  possible  information 
on  the  subject. 

t  As  it  is  important  for  our  subject  to  understand  the  nature  of  these  popular 
performances  I  shall  give  an  extract  from  the  Polycraticus  of  John  of  Salisbury, 
Bk.  I.  chap.  8.  184  (as  cited  by  M.  Jusserand  'Le  Theatre  en  Angleterre;  p  22 ) 
"Admissa  sunt  ergo  spectacula  et  infinita  tyrocinia  vanitatis,  quibus  qui 
omnino  otiari  non  possunt,  perniciosius  occupenter.  Satius  enim  fuerat  otiari 
quam  turpiter  occupari.  Hinc  mimi,  salii,  vel  saliaries,  balatrones,  aemiliani, 
gladiatores,  palaestrini,  gignadii,  praestigiatores,  malefici  quoque  multi 
et  tota  joculatorum  scena   procedit.     Quorum   adeo   error   invaluit,  ut   a 


25 

Another  probable  tributary,  that  unquestionably  at  a  later  date 
did  much  to  prepare  the  day  for  the  regular  drama,  may  have  come 
from  the  study  of  the  Roman  playwrights.  This  study  began  in  the 
monasteries  at  an  early  date.  Hroswitha,  a  nun  of  Gandersheim  in 
Eastphalian  Saxony,  wrote  toward  the  close  of  the  tenth  century, 
six  plays  of  a  sacred  character  on  legendary  subjects  which  she 
modelled  on  the  comedies  of  Terence.*  It  is  important  to  bear  in 
mind  the  end  she  had  in  view :  She  wished  to  show  how  much 
better  and  more  edifying  comedies  than  those  of  the  pagan  poet 
might  be  written  by  a  Christian  hand.  Personally  she  recognized 
the  strangeness  of  her  avocation,  but  she  wrote  to  remedy  an  abuse. 
The  abuse  was  the  reading  of  Terence's  plays. 

The  influence  of  the  nun's  work  was  not  widespread;  it  is 
disputed  whether  her  productions  were  ever  presented,    but  her 


*  "Geschiclte  der  Deutschen  Litteratur"  Vogt— Koch.  "Hrotsviths  Dramen 
haben  den  ausgesprochenen  Zweck,  Terenz  in  den  Dienst  des  Christentums 
Oder  vielmehr  in  der  Dienst  den  Nonnenklosters  zu  stellen.  Von  den  gefalligen 
Form  des  vielgelessenen  Dichters  gefesselt,  iiber  den  anstossigen  Inhalt  seiner 
Komodien  entrustet,  will  sie  in  seinem  Stile  Dramen  anderen  Geistes  schreiben. 
•  In  derselben  Dictungsart  in  der  man  bisher  von  schandlicher  Unzucht  iippiger 
Weiber  gelesen  hat,  soil  jetzt  die  lobliche  Keuschheit  heiligerjungfrauen  gefeiert 
werden.'  Mit  diesen  Worten  bezeichnet  sie  selbst  ihre  Aufgabe.  Und  sie  hat  sie 
mit  Geschick  gelost.  In  besserem  und  fliissigerem  Latein  als  die  meisten  Schrifts 
teller  ihrer  Zeit,  in  stellenweise  recht  lebhafter  und  gewandter  Fiihrung  des 
Dialoges  hat  sie  in  fiink  Stiichen  das  Keuschheitsthema,  in  einem  secnsten 
wenigstens  auch  die  Stand— haftigkeit  christhcher  Jungfrauen  behandelt ' 
(pp.  52-53)  Cf.  A.  Ebert,  Algemeine  Gesch.  der  Litteratur  des  Mittelalters  in 
Abendlande"  Vol.  III.  pp.  285-330.  J.  S.  Tunison  (loc.  cit.  161  et  seqq)  "The 
Byzantines  not  only  preserved  the  theatrical  habits  of  the  Hellenic  race,  but 
also  endeavored  to  christianize  the  stage  long  before  Roswitha  was  in  exis- 
tence. .  .  .  The  famous  comedies  of  Roswitha  when  their  genesis  is  carefully 
investigated,  are  seen  to  have  with  eastern  lore,  dramatic  traditions,  and 
history  relations  that  can  be  explained  in  only  one  way."  pp.  138-139. 

praeclaris  domibus  non  arceantur,  etiam  illi  qui,  obscenis  partibus  corporibus, 
oculis  omnium  eam  ingerunt  turpi  tudinem,  quam  erubescat  quando  tumul- 
tiantes  inferius  crebro  aerem  foedant,  et  turpiter  inclusum,  turpius  produnt. 
Numquid  tibi  videtur  sapiens  qui  oculos,  vel  aures  istis  expandit?"  Cf  also  M. 
Jusserand,  "A  Literary  Historv  of  the  English  People,"  Chap  VI.  pp.  439-494, 
and  his  "Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Middle  Ages",  pp.  23  et  sqq;  212-218  etc. 
The  passion  for  things  theatrical  passed  in  a  short  while  from  the  streets  and 
greens  to  the  Churches.  In  the  twelfth  century  Aelred,  abbot  of  Rievaulx, 
complained  that  the  house  of  prayer  was  turned  into  a  theatre :  Videas  ali- 
quando  hominem  aperto  ore  quasi  intercluso  halitu  expirare,  non  cantare,  ac 
ridiculosa  quadam  vocis  interceptione  quasi  minitari  silentium ;  nunc  agones 
morientium,  vel  extasim  patientium  imitari.  Interim  histrionicis  quibusdam 
gestibus  totum  corpus  agitaur,  torquentur  labia,  rotant,  ludunt  humeri;  et  ad 
singulas  quasque  notas  digitorum  flexus  respondet.  For  this  and  much  more, 
cf.  Minge,  P.  L.  CCXV.  571  and  P.  L.  CCXV.  1070  (Chambers  I.  279.)  It 
will  be  well  to  bear  in  mind  this  deep  and  wide-spread  interest  in  every  species 
of  dramatic  life,  if  one  would  justly  estimate  the  later  formal  products  which 
were  the  fittest  survivals  of  these  tableaux  vivanty  early  efforts  at  dramatic 
expression. 


26 

action  is  significant  as  a  probable  index  of  what  may  have  been 
the  practice  in  the  monastic  and  scholastic  circles  generally.  The 
"Christus  Patiens,"  by  a  contemporary  of  Hroswitha,  may  be 
mentioned  in  this  connection.  Its  author  has  Lycophron,  Euripides, 
and  Aeschylus  contribute  to  the  cause  of  Christian  edification.* 
Again,  at  the  end  of  the  next  century  the  "I^udus  de  Sancta 
Katharina,"  the  first  dramatic  representation  in  England  of  which 
any  account  has  come  down,  was  composed  by  one  Geoffreys,  a 
member  of  the  University  of  Paris. f  As  Paris  was  the  home  of  the 
Humanities  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose  that  this  Norman  scholar 
may  have  planned  his  composition  on  classic  models.  Matthew  of 
Paris,  whose  account  of  the  Ludus  de  S.  Katharina  is  all  that  is 
known  of  the  play,  leaves  it  understood  that  Geoffrey's  effort  was 
not  phenomenal  but  the  like  was  "de  consuetudine  magistrorum  et 
scholarum."J  Be  that  as  it  may,  this  much  seems  certain: 
neither  to  the  influence  of  the  classic  drama  nor  to  the  dramatic  feats 
in  town  or  castle  may  the  origin  of  the  Gothic  drama  be  referred. 
A  priori  it  would  seem  strange  that  the  most  'democratic  of  the  arts' 
should  not  spring  from  the  people  but  have  its  fountain-head  in  the 
shades  of  academic  seclusion.  Whatever  difficulties  one  meets  with 
in  ascribing  the  historical  origin  of  the  Gothic  drama  to  the  study 
of  the  Greek  and  Roman  playwrights  during  the  earlier  renaissance 
of  art  and  letters  in  the  latter  part  of  the  eleventh  and  beginning  of 
the  twelfth  century ;  §  when,  however,  there  will  be  question  of  the 
literary  origin  of  the  drama  in  England  one  may  not  easily  overesti- 
mate foreign,  influences — the  early  Elizabethans  drawing  directly 
from  Plautus,  Terence  and  Seneca,  and  mediately,  through  Italian 

*  Brands,  J.  C.  "Christus  Patiens."  He  has  compared  the  text-sources  and 
has  given,  so  far  as  I  am  aware  of,  the  latest  (1885)  edition  of  the  play.  For 
a  discussion  of  authorship,  Krumbacher,  "Gesh.  der.  Bvzant.  Litt."  (pp.  1006 
ff.)  also  Mr.  Tuoison  (loc.  cit.  pp.  70-71.)  Magnin  **Le  Journal  des  Savants," 
(Jan.  and  May  1849)  for  an  analysis  of  the  play  itself. 

t  For  an  an  account  of  Geoffrey  as  Abbot  of  St.  Albans,  in  Bulaeus  "Historia 
Universitatis  Parisiensis,"  Vol.  I,  p.  223. 

%  Matthew  Paris,  Historia  Major  (ed  1663) ,  Vol.  I,  p.  223. 

§  Walter  Pater,  The  Renaissance,  p.  3.  "The  Renaissance  is  the  name  of  a 
many-sided,  but  yet  united  movement,  in  which  the  love  of  the  things  of  the 
intellect  and  the  imagination  for  their  own  sake,  the  desire  for  more  liberal 
and  comely  way  of  conceiving  life  make  themselves  felt,  urging  those  who 
experience  this  desire  to  search  out  first  one  and  then  another  means  of  intel- 
lectual or  imaginative  enjoyment,  and  directing  them  not  merely  to  the  dis- 
covery of  old  and  forgotten  sources  of  this  enjoyment,  but  to  the  divine  new 
sources  ot  it,  new  experiences,  new  subjects  of  its  poetry,  new  sources  of 
art.  Of  this  feeling  there  was  a  great  outbreak  in  the  end  of  the  twelfth  and 
the  beginning  of  the  following  century." 


27 

translators  and  imitators,  from  the  dramatic  masterpieces  in  Greek.* 
Neither  should  over-emphasis  be  put  on  the  share  which  at  first 
sight  one  is  likely  to  attribute  to  the  nomadic  caste,  especially 
popular  all  through  the  Middle  Ages.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  there  is  dramatic  material  among  all  peoples  and  at  every  age; 
it  was  abundantly  present  in  mediaeval  England,  but  would  it  not 
be  pushing  a  search  for  origins  a  little  too  far  to  ascribe  that  of 
the  Modern  drama  exclusively  to  the  tactics  of  tumblers,  rope- 
walkers,  stilt-dancers  and  hoop-vaulters  and  to  the  obscene 
manoeuvres  of  mimics  and  contortionists? 

Not  with  these  nor  with  the  students  of  the  Greek  and  Roman 
dramatists  does  it  seem  that  the  Gothic  drama  took  its  rise.  In 
the  liturgical  services  of  the  Church  a  dramatic  germ  was  for 
centuries  in  process  of  formation  and  grew  into  its  fullest  life 
during  the  high-tide  of  Mediaeval  Catholicism  at  the  period  of 
the  Crusades,  from  the  accession  of  St.  Gegory  VII  (1073)  to  the 
pontificate  of  Boniface  VIII  ( 1 294-1303) .  In  the  simple  but  deeply 
significant  liturgical  dramas  there  were  essential  dramatic  qualities 
that  needed  only  formation  and  development  to  produce  a  drama  of 
the  highest  order.  These  Sanctuary  scenes  derived  from  the  inex- 
haustible nature  of  the  realities  which  they  treated  a  degree  of 
actuality  that  they  stand  forth,  instinct  with  vigorous  life  and 
capable  of  producing  or  of  growing  into  a  higher  and  fuller  life. 
Unlike  the  other  origins  to  which  it  had  been  the  custom  some- 
time to  refer  to  the  beginnings  of  the  Gothic  drama,  the  liturgical 
ofl&ces  of  Mediaeval  Church  seem  alone  deserving  of  the  name  of 
source,  t 

*  J.  Churton  Collins,  Essays  and  Studies,  p.  124.  "  We  must,  however, 
guard  carefully  against  attaching  undue  importance  to  the  influence  of  Italy. 
It  was  an  influence  the  significance  of  which  is  purely  historical.  All  it 
efiected  was  to  furnish  the  artist  of  our  stage  with  models,  it  operated  on 
form  and  it  operated  on  composition,  but  it  extended  no  further.  Once  formu- 
lated, our  drama  pursued  an  independent  course.  It  became,  in  the  phrase  of 
its  greatest  representative,   'the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and 

gressure'  "  A  study  of  the  beginnings  and  early  growth  of  the  English  drama 
om  the  view  point  of  characterization  proves  the  accuracy  of  this  conclusion. 
A  native  power  in  the  treatment  of  the  caste  is  the  dramatic  progression  one 
sees  clearest  underlying  the  many  varieties  of  the  Mediavel  drama.  From  the 
beginning  one  may  easily  notice  the  passion  of  the  playwright  in  his  instinctive 
search  for  novel  bits  of  matter,  to  enhance  the  interest  and  distinctness  of  his 
presentation. 

Mr.  J.  S.  Tunison  in  his  fourth  chapter  deals  with  eastern  dramatic  tradi- 
tions by  way  of  ancient  and  mediaeval  Italy.  His  reasoning  is  strongly  sup- 
plementary of  conclusions  reached  by  Churton  Collins. 

t  Du  Meril,  "Les  Origines  Liturgiques,  etc.",  pp.  83  ff. 
W.  Boyd  Carpenter,  "The  Religious  Spirit  in  Poetry,"  Chap.  I  and  II. 


28 

The  early  imitation  of  the  classics  from  the  view  point  of  a 
popular  drama,  contributed  not  considerably  to  the  spread  of 
interest  in  things  dramatic.  lyike  Christianity  itself,  the  drama  is 
no  theory  of  the  study  or  the  cloister.  Such  a  career  is  contrary  to 
its  genuis  and  character.  Its  proper  atmosphere,  its  home  is  the 
world;  and  to  know  what  it  is  we  must  seek  it  in  the  world  and 
hear  and  study  the  world's  witness.  True,  the  anomaly  of  the  later 
French  Aristotle  had  not  been  known,  still  no  one  who  is  to  any 
extent  familiar  with  the  spirit  of  Elizabethan  dramatic  literature 
will  allow  that  so  spontaneous  and  characteristically  national 
art  product  as  the  Romantic  drama  is  a  growth  of  classic  imitation. 
Less  still  would  he  for  other  reasons  be  inclined  to  admit  that  the 
ephemeral  productions  of  mediaeval  strolling  entertainers  can  be 
linked  in  any  save  the  remotest  connection  with  a  drama  whose 
history  is  that  of  contemporary  philosophic  and  religious  thought 
and  whose  chief  excellence  lies  in  its  depth  of  character-treatment. 
These  were  the  very  opposite  of  this.  They  were  informed  by  no 
lasting  motive  or  inspiration;  they  were  origin  and  end  in  them- 
selves, with  no  relation  to  past  or  future,  simply  things  of  the 
moment. 

But  in  certain  incipient  ways  the  liturgical  acts  are  fore-shadow- 
ings — they  show  characteristics  or  notes  of  the  regular  Elizabethan 
drama.  They  differ  from  it  accidentally  or  in  degree,  not  sub- 
stantially or  in  kind.*  They  are,  as  it  were,  so  many  rude  sketches 
of  a  variety  of  dramatic  ideas  which  the  playwright  vividly  con- 
ceived and  felt  but  was  incapable  fully  to  realize  dramaturgically. 
These  liturgical  attempts  at  dramatic  expression  possessed  many 
essential  qualities  of  a  great  drama — qualities,  which  when  filled  out 
and  fashioned  into  a  unity  and  centralized  in  order  to  a  general 
dramatic  effect,  supplied  what  is  fundamental  in  the  Elizabethan 
drama.  What  these  influential  quaUties  or  dominant  ideas  were 
will  in  part  be  seen  in  the  next  chapter.  Here  let  it  suffice  to  say 
that  by  virtue  of  their  fecund  nature  they  were  capable  of  endless 
adaptation  and  development,  containing  a  fund  of  latent  energies 
and  resources  which  were  ever  tending  to  break  forth  from  their 
sacred,  pent-up  limits.  Such  fertility  is  wanting  to  the  productions 
of  the  mimes  and  minstrels,  and  is  wholly  independent  of  any  posi- 
tive influence  surviving  the  dissolution  of  the  theatres.  It  is  there- 
fore strictly  true  that  apart  from  the  liturgical  offices  one  finds  in 


•  Courthope,  W.,  A  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I,  pp.  383-394. 


29 

no  other  dramatic  form  at  such  an  early  date  so  many  vital  dramatic 
elements  from  which,  as  from  so  many  germs,  a  Shakesperean 
drama  might  have  grown  in  Kngland  as  in  Greece  and  Spain.* 


*  Faguet,  E.j  Etudes  Litteraire  Dixneuvi^me  Siecle,  pp.  38-39.  Religious 
Drama  in  Spain,  Ticknor  "History  of  Spanish  Literature,"  Vol.  I,  p.  225  fi. 
Vol.  II.  249.  "Calderon,"  M.  F.  Egan,  "Library  of  the  Worlds  Best  Litera- 
ture," Vol.  VII,  pp.  30-71. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CHARACTKRIZATION  IN  ITSKLF  AND  IN  ITS  RELA- 
TIONS TO  OTHER  DRAMATIC  ELEMENTS. 

We  can  conceive  of  a  purely  intellectual  nature  apart  from  its 
personality,  a  nature,  one  and  complete  in  itself,  with  reason,  will 
and  sense.  A  human  nature  so  conceived  though  concrete,  indeed, 
and  full,  can,  however,  reside  only  in  the  mind;  for  an  existence 
other  than  the  conceptual  it  lacks  the  perfection  of  the  personality 
to  vitalize  and  determine  it  to  make  it  a  living  man,  an  effectual, 
responsibile  being.  In  the  whole  scope  of  rational  life  neither 
reason  nor  faith  gives  an  example  of  the  purely  objective,  isolated 
existence  of  an  intellectual  nature  apart  from  its  personality. 
Human  nature  in  its  concrete  existence  is  inseparable  from  the 
personality  which  adds  to  it  a  positive  perfection  of  self -movement. 
Yet,  a  singular,  living  and  complete  rational  nature,  however 
potential  or  facultative  it  be,  includes  of  necessity  the  prerogative  of 
self-dominion  and  is  itself  a  centre  of  responsibility,  but  not  till  the 
moment  that  personality  and  nature  unite  is  that  prerogative 
actually  realized.  The  union  effects  the  transition  from  a  state  of 
passivity  or  tendency  to  a  state  of  activity  and  reality. 

Character  is  the  result  of  this  union;  it  is  this  action.  In  its 
widest  meaning  character  seems  to  be  the  sum  of  man's  qualities, 
the  outcome  of  the  united  nature  and  personality  acting  as  a  whole, 
reasoning,  willing  and  feeling.  In  this  primary  signification, 
character  is  not  solely  an  intellectual  product,  nor  is  it  the  out- 
growth of  volitional  acts  alone,  nor  exclusively  sense-experience. 
It  is  rather  the  ever-varying  interaction  of  the  soul's  triple  activity, 
in  act  itself,  while  at  the  same  time  possessing  an  underlying  unity 
that  is  simple,  yet  in  its  manifestations  more  diversified  than  the 
seven  colors  of  the  rainbow  and  as  manifold  and  complex  as  the 
motives  which  make  up  an  individual's  life.  To  reproduce  this 
activity — the  interaction  or  struggle  of  reason,  will  and  feeling;  to 
express  the  various  intricate  motives  back  of  the  intellectual, 
volitional  and  emotional  acts,  as  well  as  the  consequences  of  these 
acts  or  forces,  and  their  reciprocal  reaction — this  is  to  characterize^ 


31 

Characterization  in  the  Drama  has  always  been  one  in  its  pur- 
pose and  aim;  in  its  means  of  realization,  however,  it  is  as  manifold 
almost  as  there  have  been  artists.  Its  aim,  even,  is  immutable  only 
in  as  far  as  characterization  is  concerned  with  the  setting  forth 
"the  sum  of  man's  qualities,"  when  it  is  a  question  to  determine 
their  nature  and  extent,  the  aim  of  characterization  will  depend  on 
the  philosophy  which  governs  the  dramatist,  on  the  answer  he 
gives  the  question  relative  to  the  summed  qualities  of  man.  It  is 
clear  that  the  treatment  of  character  by  the  playwright  who  looks 
on  the  hero's  servant  as '*a  machine"  purely,  and  who  sees  the 
hero,  as  indeed  the  hero  sees  himself,  urged  on  by  an  unseen  power 
to  an  inevitable  catastrophe,  must  differ  not  only  in  degree  but  in 
kind  from  the  character-presentation  by  the  dramatist  who  recog- 
nizes in  the  page  a  human  person  with  rights  and  responsibilities 
and  in  the  master  a  free  agent  that  freely  shapes  his  own  ends. 
With  this  limitation  as  to  the  nature  of  its  object,  character- 
presentation  has  at  all  times  been  one  in  motive  and  purpose. 

From  an  estimate  of  Shakespeare's  achievement — which  is  the 
surest  criterion  of  character-treatment  in  the  drama  for  all  time — 
one  can  see  what  is  implied  in  the  primary  meaning  of  the  term 
"character"  itself.  An  analysis  of  the  Poet's  work  makes  clear 
that  the  word  "personality"  which  is,  perhaps,  better  described  as 
an  energy  than  as  a  substance,  such  are  its  essentially  living  qual- 
ities— would  embrace  all  that  the  over-used  word  "character" 
includes  and  has  the  further  advantage  of  bringing  into  special 
prominence  the  very  idea  least  emphasized  or  quite  forgotten  in  the 
thoughtless  use  of  the  commoner  word.  The  term  personality,  as 
applied  to  the  presentation  of  characters  in  the  drama,  would,  it 
seems,  primarily  imply  the  presentment,  or  at  least,  the  effort  to 
present,  on  the  stage,  man  in  his  highest  moral  relations,  the  main- 
springs of  his  actions,  their  ethical  worth  and  sanction,  and  such 
like  root-principles  of  human  life  and  emotion.  Turning  to  the 
product  of  the  early  Gothic  playwright's  work  one  finds  that  this 
was  precisely  his  view  of  dramatic  action.  He  would  set  forth  a 
spiritual  picture  which  brought  into  distinct  consciousness  what  the 
many  felt  but  loosely  apprehended  His  effort  was  to  create  a  drama 
informed  by  Mediaeval  Christianity,  the  growth  of  the  religious 
ritual  and  for  a  long  time  intimately  connected  with  the  worship  of 
precept,  and  therefore,  the  medium  through  which  were  shaped  and 
expressed  in  a  concrete  manner  the  intangible  realities  of  the 
spiritual  world  as  they  were  known  and  felt  in  this.     The  mediae- 


32 

val  playwright,  in  other  words,  dealt  with  those  static  aspirations 
that  filled  his  soul  with  an  ideal  which  his  deficient  language  pre- 
vented him  from  embodying  in  artistic  form.  The  immanency  of 
the  truth  was  felt  by  him  but  he  was  incapable  of  communicating  it 
adequately  to  words  and  actions. 

It  is  quite  evident  how  nearly  one  the  earliest  attempts  at 
character  -  presentation  had  been  with  treatment  of  dramatic  life  by 
Marlowe  and  Shakespeare.*  An  extract  from  Sidney  Lee,  in  show- 
ing the  nature  of  Shakespeare's  processes,  the  extent  and  vividness 
of  his  conceptions,  the  firmness  and  flexibility  of  the  mental  grasp 
which  he  possessed  over  the  creatures  of  his  imagination,  will  help 
to  illustrate  this  affinity  further;  and  when  read  with  the  thought 
of  the  drama  of  today  in  mind,  his  words  will  go  far  to  suggest  a 
reason  why  the  particular  element  which  the  word '  'personality' '  chief- 
ly emphasizes  is  obscured  or  obsolete  in  the  current  use  of  the  term 
*  'character. ' '  I  should  venture  to  say  that  owing  to  the  perfection  of 
what  was  weakest  in  Shakespeare  and  his  predecessors  or  wholly 
neglected  by  them,  the  modern  dramatist  has  relaxed  his  efforts  to 
realize  through  poetry  what  technique  apparently  so  fully  supplies. 
These  are  Sidney  Lee's  words :  f 

"But  when  the  whole  of  Shakespeare's  vast  work  is  scrutinized 
with  due  attention  the  glow  of  his  imagination  is  seen  to  leave  few 
passages  wholly  unillumined.  Some  of  his  plots  are  hastily  con- 
structed and  inconsistently  developed,  but  the  intensity  of  the 
interest  with  which  he  contrives  to  invest  the  personality  of  his  heroes 
and  heroines  triumphs  over  halting  or  digressive  treatment  of  the 
story  in  which  they  have  their  being.  Although  he  was  versed  in  the 
technicalities  of  stage-craft,  he  occasionally  disregarded  its  elemen- 
tary conditions.  But  the  success  of  his  presentments  of  human  life 
and  character  depended  little  on  his  manipulation  of  theatrical 
machinery.  His  unassailable  supremacy  springs  from  the  versatile 
workings  of  his  insight  and  intellect,  by  virtue  of  which  his  pen 
limned  with  unerring  precision  almost  every  gradation  of  thought 
and  emotion  that  animates  the  living  stage  of  the  world." 

This  places  one  at  the  proper  angle  of  vision  to  study  the  dra- 
matic activity  during  the  Middle  Ages  relative  to  the  treatment  of 
the  characters.  Though  in  its  infancy  from  the  point  of  view  of 
art  and  development,  and  not  for  generations  after  the  first  indica- 
tions of  life  are  perceived  do  the  embryonic  forms  evolve  into  dra- 

•  Dowden,  E.,  "Transcripts  and  Studies,"  pp.  263-434-435-441. 
t  "A  Life  of  William  Shakespeare,"  pp.  355-356. 


33 

matic  proportions  and  take  on  the  properties  of  the  drama;  still 
competent  admirers  of  Shakespeare  regarded  him  as  "the  direct 
heir^'  of  the  mediaeval  playwright,  and  see  in  his  work  "the  highest 
expression  of  the  dramatic  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages." 

Just  as  the  arrangement  of  the  stage  -  structure  itself  was 
founded  on  contemporary^  cosmic  belief,  so  during  the  three  or  four 
centuries  of  dramatic  activity  that  preceded  the  Elizabethan  drama 
characterization  was  based,  unconciously  no  doubt,  on  the  current 
philosophic  view  of  man  and  upon  the  nature  of  his  powers.  No 
modern  religion  or  social  theory,  no  Christian  dramatist,  and  medi- 
aeval least  of  all,  could  ever  have  viewed  the  relations  of  man  with 
man  and  men  with  the  unseen  as  they  appeared  to  the  pre-christian 
audience  and  poet.  The  doctrine  of  Fate,  the  abiding  concious- 
ness  of  an  overhanging  doom,  never  exercised  so  dominant  a  sway 
over  Greek  life  and  conduct  as  the  ideas  of  personality  and  responsi- 
bility influenced  all  classes  of  men  throughout  the  Middle  Ages. 
This  is  here,  perhaps,  the  sharpest  contrast  that  may  be  drawn 
between  ancient  and  mediaeval  life  and  habits  of  thought,  and  it  is 
likewise  of  much  significance  to  the  understanding  the  theatre  of 
both  periods.  If  the  Greek  dramatist  was  subjected  to  the  super- 
stition that  there  is  a  divinity  which  shapes  our  ends,  rough  hew 
them  how  we  will,  for  the  mediaeval  playwright  nothing  was  clearer 
than  the  fact  that  human  destiny  was  the  result  not  of  what  his  stars 
but  of  what  he  himself  had  made  it.  No  divine  sentence,  intrans- 
gressible  because  its  cause  could  not  be  diverted  or  hindered,  was 
ever  pronounced  on  a  mediaeval  hero.  The  contrary  was  the  rule. 
To  the  injury  of  divine  and  poetic  justice  instead  of  the  condign 
catrastrophe  awaiting  a  delinquent,  in  his  last  hours  the  life-long 
law-breaker  meets  with  plentiful  salvation  from  merciful  Heaven. 

••If  we  would  understand  well  the  Middle  Ages  we  must  ever 
keep  in  view  that  in  those  times  public  life  was  dominated  by  two 
great  functional  ideas — the  sense  of  personality  and  the  sense  of 
responsibility.  Throughout  those  centuries  it  was  the  universal 
persuasion  that  the  final  end  of  society  was  the  perfection  of  each 
individual  soul,  or  rather,  its  individual  salvation. "-^^  These  two 
dominant  ideas  of  mediaeval  life  form  the  very  basis  of  dramatic  char- 
acterization as  well  as  the  immediate  motive  for  the  formation  of  the 
religious  stage.  The  liturgical  and  in  general  the  entire  mediaeval 
drama,  aiming  primarily  to  give  expression  in  action  to  the  religious 


Shahan,  T.  J.,  The  Middle  Ages,  pp.  182  ft. 


34 

and  moral  life  of  the  age,  is  concerned  most  directly  with  two  great 
functional  ideas  which,  as  may  be  seen  further  on,  easily  passed 
from  the  realm  of  the  ideal  and  appealed  to  the  interested  audience 
as  near  and  actual.  These  ideals  or  actualities  manifested  them- 
selves nowhere  so  clearly  nor  so  immediately  as  on  the  religious 
stage.  Though  at  the  basis  of  all  dramatic  action,  giving  a  mean- 
ing to  the  perpetual  struggle  of  good  and  evil,  or  as  it  is  seen  more 
concretely  on  the  stage,  the  exertion  of  the  will  against  opposing 
forces,  which  is  the  essential  subject -mattter  of  the  drama,  the 
ideas  emphasizing  human  freedom  and  destiny  were,  perhaps  at  no 
time  so  exclusively  prominent  in  the  mind  nor  so  popularly  sensed. 
These  active  "senses"  of  personality  and  responsibility  being  kept 
in  view,  many  parts  of  the  mediaeval  drama  will  come  not  only 
intelligible  but  intimately  personal  and  replete  with  interest  for 
every  listener. 

At  first  sight  and  apart  from  influencing  conditions,  one 
may  think  that  in  roles  conceived  so  broadly  and  generally  as  those 
of  the  religious  drama,  the  players  must  have  moved  and  acted,  as 
humanly  as  one  might  fancy  kn  impersonal  nature  would  act.  One 
may  see  nothing  or  but  little  regular  and  consequent  in  what  they 
do;  actions  of  individuals  not  of  persons,  showing  no  signs  of  a  self- 
determining  process  going  on  within  but  urged  on  and  conditioned 
by  something  external.  It  requires,  however,  no  very  long  or  close 
intimacy  with  a  mediaeval  caste,  and  particularly  with  that  of 
the  liturgical  drama,  to  find  abundant  instances  to  satisfy  oneself 
that  this  is  not  so.  It  is  true  that  there  is  what  resembles  an  exter- 
nal necessity  moving  to  act,  but  this  is  only  apparent.  This 
seeming  outward  coaction  is  not  caused  by  any  divine  and 
intransgressible  sentence,  but  results  from  the  vivid  and  abiding 
consciousness  of  the  fullest  inner  freedom  and  personal  responsibility. 
It  would  be  more  exact  on  this  very  account  to  say  that  an  internal 
\^  necessity  was  at  all  times  making  itself  felt  and  imperiously  demand- 
ing attention.  Consequently  what  looks  to  be  the  immediate  cause 
is  not  the  real  cause;  the  true  motive  is  occult.  Every  act  has  roots 
deep  down  and  hidden,  the  motives  that  accompany  and  appar- 
ently explain  it  are  never  more  than  a  part  of  the  true  cause.  The 
accompaning  cause  —  even  as  it  will  be  in  comedy  later — is  always 
illusive.  One  feels  that  there  is  ever  going  on  in  the  bosom  of  the 
agent  a  self-determining  process  which  is  striving  for  complete 
realization  independent  and  even  in  despite  of  everything  external. 
This  struggle  is  the  essence  of  the  drama.     It  was  present  at  the 


35 

birth  of  the  modern  theatre  and  an  account  of  its  presentation  to 
the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century  would  be  the  history  of 
pre- Elizabethan  dramatic  characterization. 

If  the  setting  forth  "the  sum  of  man's  qualities"  be  rightly 
said  to  characterize, — characterization  being  taken  in  a  general 
sense  —  it  may  be  claimed  for  our  playwright  that,  though  he 
numbered  man's  capacities  differently,  he  understood  the  purpose 
of  the  stage  and  aimed,  as  dramatists  of  all  times,  to  reproduce 
life,  to  present  man  as  a  whole — reasoning,  willing  and  feeling.  In 
the  fundamental  conception,  then,  the  pre-Klizabethan  playwright 
is  one  with  his  successors.  He  sought,  though  certainly  not  so 
consciously  as  the  author  of  the  phrase,  to  show  Truth  his  face,  to 
hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature. 

Thus  far,  perhaps,  he  succeeded.  Let  it  be  admitted  that  he 
did;  that  his  idea  of  the  stage  and  its  requirements  agreed,  in  the 
main,  with  that  held  by  his  classic  successors,  Marlowe,  Shake- 
speare, Massinger  and  Jonson,  and  that  in  every  case  his  ablest 
efforts  were  to  realize  this  idea  and  meet  these  requirements  by  pro- 
ducing a  living  human  caste;  in  a  radical  point,  however,  he  was 
yet  deficient.  The  pre-Shakespearean  dramatist  seems  never  to 
have  grasped  in  its  essential  entirety  what  is  dramatic.  This  was 
an  original  weakness  and  endured  long.  The  playwright  never 
took  into  practical  account,  though  he  refers  to  it  repeatedly,  the 
limitations  of  the  stage,  never  distinguishing  between  an  actual  life 
of  half  a  century  and  that  lived  on  the  boards  during  half  a  day. 
The  slowness  in  duly  appreciating  this  is  the  first  cause  of  the  com- 
parative insignificance  of  the  long  beginning  of  the  English  drama. 
It  is  so  intimately  connected  with  the  question  of  dramatic  charac- 
terization that  this  may  be  told  in  terms  which  would  express  the 
growth  in  the  realization  of  the  idea  of  what  is  dramatic.  Growth 
in  the  conciousness  of  what  is  dramatic  is  inseparable  from  growth 
of  characterization  in  the  drama. 

Free-will,  which  is  a  first  step  to  individuality,  and  person- 
ality, or  the  consciousness  of  oneself  as  a  centre  of  moral 
retribution,  were  elements  of  great  dramatic  importance  in  the 
theatre  of  the  Middle  Ages.  They  were  to  an  extent  the  cause  of 
its  origin  and  the  reason  of  its  longevity.  No  depth  of  character- 
ization is  possible  without  these  vital  factors,  or  more  accurately, 
this  essential  fundament  of  all  dramatic  action,  and  with  them  little 
more  is  needed.      However  worthy  of  emphasis   in   this  present 


36 

connection  these  predispositions  are,  the  drama  has  yet  other 
requirements.  A  dramatic  action  is  needed.  The  subject-matter 
of  the  play  must  be  dramatic ;  the  hero  must  be  governed  by  a 
predominate  passion  or  desire  and  have  a  resolute  will  to  gratify 
his  desire,  to  reach  the  end  he  has  proposed.  In  his  ef]£orts  to 
attain  the  object  of  his  ambition  he  is  arrested  by  the  action  of 
opposing  forces.  Thence  comes  the  necessary  struggle  of  contrary 
wills,  whence  the  revelation  of  character.  Freytag  defines  the 
dramatic  in  this  manner :  The  dramatic  implies  the  presence  of 
those  mighty  soul  -  swaying  motives  that  nerve  to  will  and  to  do: 
those  passionate  emotions  astir  in  the  soul  in  consequence  of  a 
deeply- felt  happening.  Dramatic  also  are  those  inner  promptings 
that  man  experiences  from  the  first  awakening  appeal  or  volition 
to  do,  through  all  successive  degrees  of  growth,  to  passionate  desire 
and  actual  realization.  Similarly  dramatic  are  the  reactions  on 
these,  whether  personal  or  otherwise,  that  are  brought  about 
within  the  soul  of  man.  The  welling  forth  of  will-power  from  the 
depth  of  the  human  soul  toward  the  outer  world  and  the  inflow  of 
informing  influences  from  the  outer  world  into  man's  inmost 
being  —  all  this  is  implied  in  the  word  "dramatic,"  as  is  also  the 
coming  into  being  of  a  deed  and  its  consequences  on  the  human 
soul.*  An  action  in  itself,  Freytag  says,  or  passionate  feeling  in 
itself,  or  even  the  presentation  of  passion  for  itself,  is  not  dramatic: 
but  a  passion  which  leads  to  action  is  the  business  of  dramatic  art. 
Giving  to  characterization  its  broadest  meaning,  it  has  been 
stated  as  the  sum  of  man's  qualities,  the  outcome  of  united  nature 
and  personality  acting  as  a  whole  —  reasoning,  willing  and  feeling. 
This  is  characterization  in  general,  as  we  may  study  it  in  the  Epic 
or  Novel  or  in  its  more  complicated  unfolding  in  actual  life;  but 
what  is  characterization  as  revealed  by  dramatic  action?  May 
it  any  longer  be  said  to  be  "the  sum  of  man's  qualities,"  since 
the  man  we  see  on  the  stage  is  in  an  abnormal  condition?  We 
have  just  seen  that  the  business  of  dramatic  art  is  with  a  passion 


•  "Technik  des  Dramas,"  p.  18.  "Dramatisch  sind  diejenigen  starken 
Seelenbewegungen,  welche  sich  bis  sum  willen  und  zum  Thun  verharten,  und 
diejenigen  Seelenbewegungen,  welche  durch  ein  Thun  auigeregt  w-erden ;  also 
die  innern  Vorgange,  welche  der  Mensch  vora  Aufleuchten  einer  Empfindung 
bis  zu  ieidenschaftlichem  Begehren  und  Handeln  durchmacht,  sowie  die 
Einw^irkungen,  w^elche  eierenes  und  fremdes  Handeln  in  der  Seele  hervorbringt ; 
also  das  Austromen  der  Willcnskraft  aus  dem  tiefen  Gemiith  nach  der  Aussen- 
welt  und  das  Einstromen  bestiramender  Einfliisse  aus  der  Aussenwelt  in  das 
Innere  des  Gemiiths;  also  das  Werden  einer  That  und  ihre  Folgen  auf  das 
Gemiith." 


37 

that  leads  to  action,  in  what  manner  then,  may  such  actions  as 
these,  motived  by  passion,  be  regarded  as  the  sum  of  man's 
qualities  ? 

At  first  it  should  be  observed  by  the  way  of  explanation  that  for 
obvious  reasons  tha  imitation  of  life  on  the  stage  must  necessarily 
be  in  many  respects  from  the  point  of  detail  other  than  the  actual. 
This  necessity  was  not  fully  understood,  or  at  least,  the  com- 
promise between  the  life  of  nature  and  its  imitation  in  the  drama 
was  not  effected  very  happily  by  our  early  playwrights.  Dramaturgy 
in  the  beginning  ignored  the  delicate  art  of  perspective;  it  had  not 
learned  to  choose  the  crisis  or  points  of  interest  and  dispense  with 
the  trivial  details  of  its  subject.  The  playwright  of  those  times 
felt  it  necessary  to  itemize  each  quality  to  reach  the  sum.  Hence 
it  is  that  in  the  oldest  extant  Moral  Play,  The  Castle  of  Constancy, 
the  action  covers  the  whole  life  of  the  hero,  Humanum  Genns 
appearing  as  a  new-born  babe,  a  youth,  a  man  and  a  greybeard. 

The  epic- writer  or  novelist  may  utilize  these  details  and  form  a 
very  characteristic  hero  from  them,  but  they  do  not  come  within 
the  province  of  the  dramatist.  They  are  not  dramatic  for  him, 
however  much  they  be  so  in  themselves. 

Characterization  in  its  technical  meaning  or  as  it  is  derived  from 
dramatic  action  properly  so  called,  gives,  however,  a  very  true 
summary  of  man's  qualities.  Be  it  so  that  we  see  the  hero  in 
exceptional  circumstances  and  at  the  dramatic  moment  of  his  life, 
face  to  face  with  an  inevitable  fact  or  line  of  conduct  which  admits 
of  only  an  alternative.  Though  inwardly  agitated  by  the  passion 
that  is  rapidly  leading  him  to  the  crisis  of  the  struggle,  the  hero 
acts  all  the  while  deliberately,  and  perhaps  conscious,  at  least, 
confusedly,  of  the  results  which  will  follow  the  climax.  Macbeth 
strikes  the  King,  though  alive  to  the  nature  of  his  act  and  its 
consequences.  His  instance  is  typically  dramatic.  A  passionate 
ambition  leads  him  to  take  the  fatal  step,  though  in  doing  so  he 
jump  the  life  to  come.  The  dramatist  (and  especially  the  English 
with  whom  the  laws  governing  the  Unities  of  time  and  place  are 
comparatively  flexible)  is  careful  to  give  the  hero  time  and 
opportunity  to  test  and  choose,  even  at  the  moment  when  the 
passion  is  reaching  its  highest  intensity  and  hasr  led  to  the  decisive 
action.  Nothing  pertaining  to  the  substance  of  the  climacteric 
act  is  indeliberate,  every  step  thereto  the  spectator  sees  is  voluntary 
' '  from  the  first  glow  of  preception  to  the  passionate  desire  and  the 
action  itself."     Otherwise  the  art  is  false. 


38 

This  being  the  process  many  of  the  terms  that  go  to  make  up 
the  sum  of  the  hero's  qualities  are  given  by  the  poet.  Later  it  will 
be  more  in  place  to  speak  of  the  activity  of  the  audience  on  each 
term,  phase  or  quality  as  the  story  unfolds  itself,  and  of  its  final 
synthesis  of  the  data  and  its  resulting  estimate  or  impression  of  the 
hero.  ''The  poet's  characterization,"  says  Freytag,  "rests  on  the 
old  peculiarity  of  man  to  percieve  in  every  living  being  a  complete 
personality  in  which  a  soul  like  that  of  the  observer's  is  supposed 
as  animating  principle;  and  beyond  this,  what  is  peculiar  to  this 
living  being,  what  is  characteristic  of  it  received  as  affording  enjoy- 
ment."* This  instinctive  desire  in  the  audience  to  complete  the 
person  by  fitting  in  or  filling  out  along  the  suggested  lines,  and  then 
endowing  this  outline,  or  let  us  say,  the  nature,  with  a  personality, 
or  centre  of  responsibility,  is  indispensible  to  the  poet.  It  affords 
the  listener  an  intellectual  pleasure  to  meet  the  actor  half  way 
and  supply  at  his  suggestion  the  necessarily  numerous  minutiae 
missing  from  the  role.  On  this  account  it  is  detrimental  in  the 
treatment  of  the  caste  to  present  to  the  audience  more  than 
characteristic  traits,  for  unimportant  details  will  of  necessity  with- 
draw the  attention  from  what  is  peculiar  and  original  and  which 
alone  interests.  With  a  careful  elimination  of  the  unnecessary  we 
shall  arrive  at  a  knowledge  deeper  and  fuller  of  the  hero's  character 
from  the  few  suggestive  strokes,  distinctive  traits  and  concomitant 
action  than  we  should  have  had  we  before  our  eyes  the  register  of 
his  doings  and  motives  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  Nor  does  it 
influence  our  estimate  of  *  *  the  sum  of  his  qualities ' '  that  exagger- 
ated circumstances  present  themselves  on  the  stage  which  are 
especially  tempting  to  the  nurtured  passion.  From  his  deliberate 
action  when  the  decisive  moment  is  reached  we  can  form  an 
accurate  appreciation  of  the  moral  worth  of  what  preceded,  for 
the  hero's  antecedent  life,  the  distinctive  traits  of  which  the  actor 
has  brought  out,  affords  sufficient  motive  for  the  climacteric  act. 
A  felt  propriety  and  truth  is  deduced  from  causes  unseen  which 
makes  the  relation  of  action  and  agent  at  the  climax  dramatically 
probable,  t 


*  Technik  des  Dramas,  pp,  215-231. 

t  In  a  work,  "An  Essay  on  the  Dramatic  Character  of  Sir  John  Falstaft," 
Maurice  Morgann  shows  the  unconscious  mental  activity  of  the  audience 
and  actor  in  respect  to  the  bringing  out  of  secret  or  implied  character 
motives. — "The  characters  in  every  drama  must,  indeed,  be  grouped;  but  in 
the  groups  of  other  poets  (than  Shakespeare)  the  parts  which  are  not  seen  do 


39 

There  will  be  occasion  to  return  to  these  considerations.  Such 
as  they  are  they  may  be  taken  as  proof  to  some  extent  of  what  was 
assumed  hitherto,  viz.,  that  the  pre  -  Elizabethan  dramatist's  idea 
of  characterization  was  in  an  incipient  way  substantially  similar  to 
that  of  his  successors.  Only  accidentally  in  the  manner  of  presen- 
tation he  differed  from  them.  As  they,  he  possessed  material 
dramatic  in  itself,  but  unlike  them  he  had  not  learned  the  full 
meaning  of  dramatic  action.  He  had  not  learned  what  to  empha- 
size. He  erred  in  the  use  of  emphasis.  Though  his  fundamental 
idea  was  one  and  dramatic — a  passion  tending  to  action  —  it  lost, 
however,  much  of  its  definitiveness  and  dramatic  quality  by  the 
tendency  to  characterize  generally,  by  treating  the  hero  as  a  whole, 
reasoning,  willing  and  feeling,  impartially,  and  in  presenting  not 
only  the  sum  of  his  qualities  but  in  stressing  equally  all  the 
addenda.  As  the  playwright  slowly  perfected  himself  in  the 
difficulty  art  of  accentuation,  details  were  eschewed,  suggestion 
replaced  narration,  the  action  became  more  important,  crises  in  the 
hero's  life  were  chosen,  the  motive  appeared  more  deliberate  and 
was  brought  more  and  more  into  prominence,  and  the  act,  as  such, 
withdrew  to  the  background.  The  characters  were  no  longer 
viewed  in  the  whole,  a  predominant  trait  or  passion  was  chosen  and 
that  was  almost  exclusively  emphasized.  From  the  leading  motive 
all  the  minor  qualities  of  the  role  flow  and  can  be  traced  to  it  as  to 
a  source.     The  hero  is  mighty  in  intellect  or  resolute  in  action  or 


not  in  fact  exist.  But  there  is  a  certain  roundness  and  integrity  in  the  forais 
of  Shakespeare,  which  give  them  an  independence  as  well  as  a  relation, 
insomuch  that  we  often  meet  with  passages  which,  though  perfectly  ft  It, 
cannot  be  sufficiently  explained  in  words  without  unfolding  the  whole 
character  of  the  speaker  ...  It  is  true  that  the  point  of  action  or  senti- 
ment, which  we  are  most  concerned  in,  is  always  held  out  for  our  special 
notice.  But  who  does  not  perceive  that  there  is  a  peculiarity  about  it  which 
conveys  a  relish  of  the  whole.  And  very  frequently  when  no  particular  point 
presses,  he  boldly  makes  a  character  act  and  speak  from  the  parts  of  the 
composition  which  are  inferred  only  and  not  distinctly  shown ;  this  produces  a 
wonderful  eflfect:  it  seems  to  carry  us  beyond  the  poet  to  nature  itself,  and 
gives  an  integrity  and  truth  to  facts  and  character,  which  they  could  not  other- 
wise obtain.  And  this  in  reality  is  that  art  in  Shakespeare,  which,  being 
withdrawn  from  our  notice,  we  more  emphatically  call  nature.  A  felt  pro- 
priety and  truth  from  causes  unseen,  I  take  it  to  be  the  highest  point  of 
Poetic  Composition.  If  the  characters  of  Shakespeare  are  thus  whole,  and  as 
it  were  original,  while  those  of  almost  all  other  writers  are  mere  imitation,  it 
may  be  fit  to  consider  them  rather  as  Historic  than  as  Dramatic  beings;  and 
when  occasion  requires,  to  account  for  their  conduct  from  the  whole  of  charac- 
ter, from  general  principles  from  latent  motives,  and  from  policies  not 
avowed."  Referred  to  by  Lewis  Campbell,  Tragic  Drama,  Aeschylus,  Sophocles 
and  Shakespeare,  pp.  48-49.  Dowden,  E.,  Shakespeare  —  His  Mind  and  Art, 
p.  111. 


40 

governed  by  sentiment.  A  consummate  art  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  dramatic  action  and  depth  of  insight  into  its  meaning  resulted 
in  Shakespearean  characterization. 

It  will  simplify  our  task  to  note  at  the  outset  these  points  of 
similarity  and  difference  from  the  point  of  view  of  characterization 
between  the  early  and  the  Elizabethan  drama.  The  idea  and  aim 
of  the  dramatist  being  the  same  from  the  beginning,  there  is  pres- 
ently a  continuity  established.  We  can  speak  of  power  of  charac- 
terizing as  growing  or  developing  or  waning.  The  germ  of  charac- 
terization at  the  origin  of  the  drama  will  pass  through  a  variety  of 
forms  and  take  from  them  certain  peculiarities;  it  will  grow  into  a 
higher  life,  manifesting  as  it  advances  more  and  more  its  true 
nature  and  ultimate  attributes,  retaining  all  the  while  its  primitive 
identity.  The  purpose  of  the  playwright  in  every  stage  of  this 
evolution  is  to  present  his  characters  realistically.  His  intention 
is  that  the^^  enact  his  thought  and  his  great  concern  will  be  to  find 
a  fitting  dress  in  which  to  clothe  it  attractively  and  fully.  If  he 
ventures  a  presentation  in  a  new  form,  it  is  precisely  because  he 
feels  that  the  old,  from  being  over-familiar,  has  lost  its  power  to 
appeal.  He  hopes  to  derive  from  the  changed  form  an  element  of 
interest,  of  which  he  profits  to  emphasize  the  ancient  truth. 

This,  then,  is  the  role  of  characterization  in  the  Mediaeval 
English  drama.  It  seems  to  mark  the  reason  of  all  dramatic 
development.  How  best  present  "the  caste?  All  is  in  this.  Dra- 
matic laws  are  founded  to  answer  this  question.  They  make  it 
their  criterion — a  factor  is  essential  or  important  to  the  degree  it  is 
in  sympathy  with  the  treatment  of  the  caste.  The  law  governing 
the  Relative  Values  of  the  characters  themselves,  the  Unities,  the 
laws  of  Probability,  Concreteness,  Completeness,  and  Coherence; 
those  that  have  to  do  with  the  Incident  and  the  Presentation  of  the 
Plot;  the  question  of  Emotion  in  the  play,  that  of  Interest  and 
Fineness  of  Truth  —  all  these  are  important  for  the  drama,  because 
each  in  its  measure  has  in  view  the  perfect  presentation  of  the 
characters  which  is  the  end  of  dramatic  art. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CHARACTER -TREATMENT  IN  THE  LITURGICAL 

DRAMA. 

Beginning  with  the  Liturgical  Offices  as  the  sacred  origin  of 
the  Modern  Theatre,  one  finds  a  multitude  of  germs  that  would  go 
to  form  a  drama.  The  marvelous  conception  back  of  the  symbolic 
action,  the  effort  to  realize  in  idea  the  meaning  of  the  veiled  reality, 
and  the  further  life-long  attempt  to  give  these  spiritual  facts  a  con- 
crete bearing  on  personal  conduct,  demanded  a  continual  exercise 
in  a  high  degree  of  the  individual's  powers.  It  elicited  the  highest 
efforts  of  his  reason,  will,  and  sense-faculties;  all  were  interested 
in  the  tremendous  mystery  that  was  unfolding  itself  before  his  eyes. 
It  lost  half  its  mysteriousness  by  reason  of  the  very  vital  interest 
it  had  for  him.  And  when  it  is  remembered  that  in  this  chief, 
though  most  familiar  liturgical  function  the  action  at  the  altar  was 
(as  all  believed)  not  a  sign  merely  representing  an  action  done 
and  past,  but  the  actual  creating  at  the  moment  of  bread  and  wine 
into  the  Divine  Flesh  and  Blood — as  the  words  signified — it  is 
easily  seen  how  much  this  sacred  rite  shortened  the  mental  step 
between  symbol  and  reality.  The  senses  expressed  in  action  the 
thought  of  the  mind.  The  symbol  in  a  very  true  sense  zms  the 
reality.  It  does  not  seem  an  over-estimate  when  the  Liturgical  Office 
is  thus  viewed,  to  see  in  it  germinally,  at  least,  a  distant  foreshadow- 
ing of  Elizabethan  "imitations  of  great  and  probable  actions.'* 

In  the  effort  to  supplement  faith  by  bringing  under  the  percep- 
tion of  the  senses  as  much  of  the  mystical  liturgy  as  might  be,  scenic 
representations  were  introduced.  In  the  beginning  these  perform- 
ances were  of  the  simplest  kind,  the  dialogues  were  in  Latin  and 
based  on  prescribed  portions  of  the  Ritual.  This  interpolating  or 
filling  out  the  ritual  of  precept  gave  rise  to  what  is  technically  called 
a  trope.  These  tropes  acted  only  on  festivals  of  great  solemnity, 
may  be  said  to  stand  at  the  head  of  the  Mediaeval  religious  drama. 

Only  two  fragments  of  the  Liturgical  drama  acted  in  Eng- 
land during  five  centuries  have  survived.  Of  its  popularity  down 
to  the  destruction  of  the  monasteries  there  is  abundant  proof.     It 


42 

was  acted  in  England  before  the  Conquest.  The  earliest  and  most 
complete  account  of  its  nature  and  scope  is  found  in  an  appendix 
to  the  Rule  of  St.  Benedict,  which  was  drawn  up  some  time  between 
the  years  959  and  979  by  Ethelwold,  Bishop  of  Winchester.  * 
Though  written  at  the  cradle  of  the  Liturgical  drama  it  anticipates 
in  the  outline  the  perfection  of  the  species.  For  this  reason  I  shall 
give  the  entry  entire  as  found  in  Chamber's  "The  Mediaeval  Stage" 
(Vol.  II,  Appendix  o).  The  arrangement  is  for  the  Easter  dra- 
matic scene  in  the  cathedral.  Mr.  Manly  gives  the  critical  Latin 
text  of  the  Bishop's  words :  t 

"While  the  third  nocturn  is  being  chanted  let  four  brethren  vest 
themselves.  Let  one  of  these,  vested  in  an  alb,  enter  as  though  to 
take  part  in  the  service,  and  let  him  approach  the  sepulchre  with- 
out attracting  attention,  and  sit  there  quietly  with  a  palm  in  his 
hand.  While  the  third  response  is  being  chanted  let  the  remaining 
three  follow,  and  let  them  all,  vested  in  copes  bearing  in  their  hands 
thuribles  with  incense  and  stepping  delicately  (pedetentim)  as  those 
who  seek  something,  approach  the  sepulchre.  These  things  are 
done  in  imitation  of  the  angel  sitting  in  the  monument  and  the 
women  with  spices  coming  to  anoint  the  body  of  Jesus.  When, 
therefore,  he  who  sits  there  beholds  the  three  approach  him  like 
folk  lost  and  seeking  something,  let  him  begin  in  a  dulcet  voice  of 
medium  pitch  to  sing: 

Quern  quaeritis    (in  sepulchre,  o  Christecole)  ? 
And  when  he  has  sung  it  to  the  end  let  three  reply  in  unison : 

Jesu(m)Nazarenuin(crucifixu(m),  o  celicola). 
So  he : — 

Non  est  hie;  surrexit,  sicut  praedixerat ; 
lie  nuntiate  quia  surrexit  a  mortuis. 

At  the  words  of  this  bidding,  let  those  three  turn  to  the  choir 

and  say: 

Alleluia!  resurrexit  Dominus. 

This  said,  let  the  one  still  sitting  there  and  as  if  recalling  them 

say  the  anthem : 

Venite  et  videte  locum    (ubi  positus  erat  Dominus,  alle- 
luia' alleluia.) 

And  saying  this  let  him  rise  and  lift  the  veil,  and  show  them 
the  place  bare  of  the  Cross,  but  only  the  cloths  laid  there  in  which 


*"Migne  P.  L.  Concordia  Regularis,  Vol.   137,  p.  495. 
t  Specimens  of  the  Pre-Shakespearean  Drama,"  pp.  xix-xx. 


43 

the  Cross  was  wrapped.  And  when  they  have  seen  this,  let  them 
set  down  the  thuribles  which  they  bare  in  that  same  sepulchre,  and 
take  the  cloth  and  hold  it  up  in  the  face  of  the  clergy,  and  as  if  to 
demonstrate  that  the  Lord  has  risen  and  is  no  longer  wrapped  there- 
in, let  them  sing  the  anthem : 

Surrexit  Dominus  de  sepulchre, 

(Qui  pro  nobis  pependit  in  ligno). 

And  let  them  lay  the  cloth  upon  the  altar.    When  the  anthem  is 

done,  let  the  prior  sharing  in  their  gladness  at  the  triumph  of  our 

King,  in  that,  having  vanquished  death  He  arose  again,  begin  the 

hymn: 

Te  Deum  laudamus. 

And  this  begun,  all  the  bells  chime  out  together." 

This  long  rubric  may  be  said  to  be  the  first  stage  direction. 
We  already  have  a  drama  outlined  in  the  Bishop's  words.  The 
temptation  to  fill  in  and  elaborate,  so  strongly  suggested  by  the  pre- 
late's outline,  could  not  be  resisted.  In  the  beginning,  a  century 
probably  before  this  Easter  ordinance  was  drawn  up,  four  lines 
seem  to  have  made  up  the  dialogue  at  the  Sepulchre : 

Angels:     Whom  seek  ye  in  the  tomb,  ye  worshippers  of  Christ? 

Holy  Women:     Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Crucified,  Ye  heavenly  adorers. 

Angels:     He  is  not -here;  He  is  risen  as  He  said. 
Go,  tell  He's  risen  from  the  tomb. 

This  was  all.  Later  on,  as  Bishop  Ethelwold's  directions  imply, 
a  development  set  in,  and  elaboration  once  begun  steadily  continued 
till  in  the  thirteenth  century  we  find  collateral  incidents  grouped 
around  the  primitive  scene.  St.  Peter  and  St.  John,  Mary  Magda- 
len and  the  Gardener  take  part  with  the  Holy  Women  and  the 
Angels  at  the  monument.  To  transcribe  the  whole  text  of  this  trope 
would  be  too  long.  A  paraphrased  translation  of  a  part  will  be 
sufficient  to  show  the  nature  of  the  elaboration  that  had  set  in,  and 
at  the  same  time  furnish  a  specimen  of  the  strictly  Liturgical  drama 
at  the  period  of  its  fullest  development.  The  Latin  text  may  be 
read  in  Wright's  reprint  or  in  the  more  recent  manuscript  by  Du 
Meril.  *  This  latter  text  I  follow.  Bishop  Ethelwold's  rubric  will 
serve  in  the  main  as  stage  directions. 

Three  brethren  clothed  to  take  parts  of  the  Three  Maries,  ap- 
proach slowly  and  sorrow-laden  to  the  Sepulchre  singing  in  accents 
of  grief  nine  subsequent  stanzas: 


'lies  Origines  La  tines  du  Theatre  Moderne,"  pp.  110-115. 


44 

I.  Mary:     Alas,  the  loving  Shepherd's  slain, 
He  who  no  guile  e'er  wrought — 
0  Deed   most  pitiful. 
II.  Mary:     Yes,  the  True  Shepherd's  dead 

Dead,  who  brought  the  saintly  life — 
O  lamentable  death ! 
III.  Mary:     Whence,  Jews,  how  came  it  so, 

How  came  this  rage,  this  rabid  rage — 
0  cursed  people,  how? 

To  much  the  same  effect  the  first  Mary  begins  a  new  stanza 
and  similarly  the  others.  This  is  repeated  another  time  which  being 
finished  as  they  near  the  Sepulchre   all  three  sing : 

Not  by  ourselves;  we  cannot  ope  the  tomb. 
Who'll  roll  the  stone  from  off  the  door? 

An  Angel  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  monument,  clothed  in  white 
and  gold,  a  shining  mitre  on  his  head  and  holding  a  palm  in  his  left 
hand  and  a  branched  candle-stick  in  his  right  speaks  gravely  as  fol- 
lows : 

"Whom  seek  ye  in  the  tomb,  ye  worshippers  of  Christ? 
The  women  amswer: 

Jesus,  the  Crucified  of  Nazareth,  thou  Heavenly  Adorer. 
And  the  Angel : 

"What,   worshippers   of   Christ,    Ye    seek   the    quick    among 
dead? 

He  is  not  here,  He  is  risen,  as  He  told. 

Remember  you  what  Jesus  spoke  in  Galilee? 

*The  Christ  must  suffer  and  on  the  third  day  rise.' " 

At  the  end  of  this  rythmic  dialogue  the  women  turn  to  the  con- 
gregation and  sing  in  prose  the  account  of  the  resurrection.  This 
done,  Mary  Magdalen,  weighed  down  with  grief,  goes  to  the 
sepulchre.  Though  she  had  just  returned  with  her  two  companions 
and  with  them  had  announced  the  Resurrection  according  to  the 
word  of  the  Angel,  she  now  comes  to  the  sepulchre  and  all  in  tears 
over  the  empty  grave,  laments  the  taking  away  of  *'the  beloved  Body 
from  the  tomb."  She  goes  back,  tells  Peter  and  John  that  the  tom.b 
is  empty  and  nothing  but  the  cloths  are  left.  At  her  word  the  two 
Apostles  hurry  to  where  Christ's  body  was  laid.  John,  outrunning 
Peter,  reaches  the  Sepulchre  first : 

John:      What  marvelous  things  see  we — 

The  Master  taken,  stolen? 
Peter:     Not  so.    As  He  said.  He  lives — 

I  believe  the  Master's  risen. 


45 

John:      Tell,  why  here  in  the  tomb 

This  shroud  and  towl  remain? 
Peter:     No  use  to  one  arisen  is  aught  of  these; 

Indices    of   His?      resurrection    they    remain. 

So  ends  the  visit  of  Peter  and  John.  Mary  Magdalen  returns  again 
and  repeats  the  same  sorrowful  and  incredulous  words  as  be- 
fore. Two  angels  assure  her  of  the  Resurrection  but  still  she  per- 
sists in  her  unbelief.  Jesus  in  the  disguise  of  the  Gardener  alone 
succeeds  to  convince  her.  The  recognition  is  substantially  after  the 
Gospel  account  with  a  paraphrased  blending  of  Easter  anthems. 
Mary,  turning  to  the  people,  expresses  her  joy  on  seeing  the  risen 
Jesus  in  the  beautiful  Sequence : 

"Rejoice  with  me  all  ye  that  love  the  Lord:  because  He 
whom  I  sought  hath  appeared  to  me,  and  while  I  wept  at  the 
grave,  I  have  seen  the  Lord,  Alleluia." 

At  the  bidding  of  the  two  angels  Magdalen  and  her  two  com- 
panions turn  to  the  congregation  and  say : 

"The  Lord  is  risen  from  the  dead.  Him  who  was  hanged 
upon  the  Rood,  Alleluia! 

The  three  then  lift  the  winding  sheet  before  the  people:  "See, 
friends,  yourselves  the  linen  cloths  left  in  the  empty  tomb.  These 
wrapped  His  Blessed  Body." 

They  lay  the  cloth  upon  the  altar  and  turning  to  the  congrega- 
tion alternate  in  the  following  lines : 

I.     Mary:  The  God  of  Gods  is  risen  to-day. 

II.  Mary:  In  vain,  0  Israel,  have  you  sealed  the  stone. 

III.  Mary:  Now  join  you  to  Christ's  followers. 

I.  Mary:  The  King  of  Angels  is  risen  to-day. 

II.  Mary:  And  saintly  hosts  from  darkness  leads. 

HI.  Mary:  The  gates  of  Heaven  are  open. 

Christ  next  appears  in  all  the  glory  of  His  state,  bearing  the 
insignia  of  His  triumph.  He  promises  to  meet  all  in  Galilee.  A 
chorus  breaks  forth  "Alleluia!  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day,"  and  the 
"Te  Deum"  follows. 

To  this  proportion  and  dramatic  significance  the  Liturgical 
scenes  of  Easter-day  had  grown  by  the  thirteenth  century.  The 
growth  was  strictly  organic.  The  lines  along  which  it  moved  were 
traced  in  Bishop  Ethelwold's  Ordinance.  In  the  brief  dialogue  that 
passed  between  the  Angels  and  the  three  Maries  four  centuries  pre- 
vious, the  texts  of  SS.  Matthew  and  Mark  were  literally  followed. 
So  long  as  the  author  denied  himself  every  right  of  invention  and 


46 

deemed  fidelity  to  the  sacred  narrative  a  religious  duty,  it  is  obvious 
no  progress  might  be  hoped  for.  Early,  however,  the  need  of 
adaptation — a  first  reason  for  characterization  which  was  later  to 
be  insisted  on — was  felt.  The  playwright  was  taught  to  realize  that 
Matthew  and  Mark  were  but  synoptists  and  that  a  large  field  of 
probability  adjoined  the  domain  of  truth.  This  was  open  to  him. 
His  success  depended  upon  his  power  to  profit  of  its  resources. 
From  it  he  might  always  hope  to  draw  the  novel  element  which 
would  give  fulness  and  interest  to  the  more  familiar  narrative  of  the 
Evangelists. 

As  these  Sanctuary  scenes,  thus  enlarged,  received  a  higher 
degree  of  artistic  development,  the  representation  became  more  and 
more  life-like.  In  time  the  personal,  uncanonical  element  mingled 
more  freely  with  the  strictly  rubrical  portions  of  the  service.  It 
might  be  supposed,  the  practice  once  begun,  that  the  ingenious  play- 
wright would  rhyme  his  own  feelings  with  the  lines  of  the  Sacred 
Text.  In  thi&  way  the  prescribed  formulas  were  filled  out,  and  as 
the  interpolation  was  usually  a  phrase  or  paraphrase  of  the  Sacred 
Writings  themselves,  it  made  a  very  pleasing  complement.  From 
being  one  with  the  service  proper  this  acting  became  an  accessory 
ornament.  Gradually  the  Liturgical  drama  left  the  service  quite 
behind  it,  although  it  continued  to  be  acted  only  on  occasion  of  the 
feast  and  always  subordinated  itself  to  the  worship  of  precept.  It 
had  reached  this  point  by  the  thirteenth  century,  at  which  time  it 
may  be  said  that  the  Easter  Liturgical  drama  had  attained  its 
highest  development  as  a  part  of  an  independent  species. 

What  the  Sepulchre  was  to  Holy  Week  and  Eastertide,  the 
Crib  was  to  Christmas.  The  dramatic  scenes  acted  on  occasion  of 
these  two  solemn  festivals  make  up  the  Liturgical  drama  proper. 
As  the  drama  of  Easter  grew  from  insignificant  beginnings  out  of 
the  Liturgical  services  to  an  existence  quite  independent  of  the  ritual 
of  the  feast,  so  the  scenes  that  had  their  origin  in  the  ecclesiastical 
commemoration  of  the  Mystery  of  the  Nativity  developed  from  the 
undramatic,  antiphonal  dialogue  of  the  tenth  century  to  an  inde- 
pendent fulness  and  variety  comparable  to  the  scenes  which  treated 
of  the  Resurrection.  The  incidents  narrated  by  the  Evangelists  in 
connection  with  the  Nativity  were  grouped  around  the  brief  narra- 
tion of  the  Infant's  birth.  The  Apparition  of  the  Star,  the  Adora- 
tion of  the  Shepherds  and  Wise  Men,  even  Rachel,  the  Slaughter 
of  the  Innocents,  the  Flight  into  Egypt  and  the  Dethroning  of 


47 

Herod  were  harmonized  and  adapted  as  was  done  with  the  events 
bearing  on  the  Resurrection.  Later  when  we  come  to  speak  of  the 
CycHc  drama  it  will  be  further  seen  to  what  extent  the  dramatic 
writing  in  the  early  history  of  the  stage  has  been  influenced  by  the 
two  greatest  events  of  human  history:  the  Birth  and  Death  of  Jesus 
Christ. 

The  paraphrase  I  have  given  of  the  thirteenth-century  Resur- 
rection Office  which  probably  shows  at  its  highest  the  dramatic 
power  to  contrast  grief  and  joy,  and  now  a  Christmas  Office  that 
would  be  fairly  representative  of  the  author's  ability  to  portray  a 
purely  joyous  scene,  will  help  us  to  understand  with  some  degree 
of  fulness  the  dramatic  value  of  these  Liturgical  tropes.  Again  I 
paraphrase  from  the  Latin  text  to  be  found  in  Du  Meril.  * 

The  stage  direction  begins :  "Let  there  be  a  crib  arranged 
back  of  the  altar  and  a  statue  of  Holy  Mary  placed  in  it.  Then 
from  an  elevation  in  front  of  the  choir,  a  boy  taking  the  part  of  an 
angel  will  announce  the  birth  of  the  Saviour  to  the  five  canons  who 
represent  the  shepherds.    As  these  enter  the  choir  the  boy  speaks : 

"Fear  not;  for  behold  I  bring  you  good  tidings  of  great  joy, 
that  shall  be  to  all  the  people.  For,  this  day  is  born  to  you  a  Saviour, 
who  is  Christ  the  Lord  in  the  City  of  David,  and  this  shall  be  a 
sign  unto  you:  you  shall  find  the  Infant  wrapped  in  swaddling 
clothes  and  laid  in  a  manger." 

A  number   of  choir-boys  hidden   in  the   niches   through   the 
Church  or  standing  in  the  gallery  above  shall  begin  in  a  high  key : 
"Glory  to  God  in  the  highest  and  on  earth  peace  to  men  of 
good  will." 

On  hearing  this  the  shepherds  will  move  toward  the  crib,  singing 
as  they  go : 

Pax  in  terris  nuntiatur,  Transeamus,  videamus 

In  excelsis  gloria!  Verbum  hoc  quod  factum  est. 

(Namque)    terra   foederatur,  Transeamus    et    sciamus 

Mediante  gratia.  Quod    (hie?)    nuntiatum  est. 

Mediator  homo  Deus  In  Judea  puer  vagit, 

Deseendit  in  propria,  Puer  salus  populi, 

Ut  ascendat  homo  reus  Quo  bellandum  se  praesagit 

Adadmissa  gaudia.  Vetus  hospes  saeculi. 

Accedamus,    accedamus 
Ad  praesaepe  domini, 
Et  ( congaudentes  ? )  dicamus 
Laus  fecundae  Virgini. 


'Les  Originea  Latines,  etc."  pp.  147-150. 


48 


As  the  shepherds  are  entering  the  stall  they  are  met  by  Mary's  two 

assistants. 

(two  canons  of  the  first  order)  clothed  in  dalmatics.     The  nurses 

ask: 

"Say  O  Shepherds,  whom  seek  ye  in  the  manger?" 
These  answer : 

"Christ  the  Lord  and  Saviour,  an  Infant  wrapped  in  swad- 
dling clothes, — even  as  the  Angel  said." 

The  nurses  draw  aside  a  curtain  which  veils  the  Infant  Jesus; 
chanting  as  they  turn  to  the  shepherds : 

"Behold  the  little  one  with  Mary  his  mother,  of  her  long 
long  since  Isaias  hath  prophesied.     .     .     ." 

A  chorus  of  choir-boys  pointing  to  the  Virgin-Mother  takes  up  the 
prophecy : 

"A  virgin  shall  conceive  and  bear  a  son,  but  go  ye  now  and 
tell  that  he  is  born!" 

At  the  words  of  this  bidding  the  shepherds  bow  themselves  in 
adoration  before  the  Infant,  and  salute  his  Mother,  singing  two 
stanzas  in  praise  of  the  maidenhood  of  Mary  and  the  divinity  of 
Jesus : 

"Salve,     Virgo     singularis;       Virgo  "Nos,  Maria,  tua  presce 

manens,  Deum  paris!  A  peceati  purga  faece; 

Ante    saecla    genera tur    (generatum)  Nostri  Cursum  incolatus 

corde  patris,  sic  dispone, 

Adoremus  nunc  creatum  Ut  det  sua  frui  Natus 

carne  matris!"  visione." 

At  this  the  shepherds  shall  leave  the  crib  and  turning  toward  the 
choir  chant  as  they  go : 

"Alleluia!   Alleluia!   now  indeed  we  are  certain  that  the 
Christ  is  born  upon  earth.    Sing  ye  all  his  praises.     .     .     ." 

The  sixth  verse  from  the  ninth  chapter  of  Isaias  is  sung.  This 
forms  the  Introit  of  the  Mass  which  is  now  begun.  The  canon- 
shepherds  lead  the  choir."  * 

In  these  Sanctuary  scenes  are  found  first  attempts  at  imita- 
tion, the  earliest  dramatic  effort  to  reproduce  a  living  past,  to  in- 
carnate the  spiritual,  to  clothe  the  ideal  in  tangible  form.  That  the 
crude  relics  of  this  attempt,  preserved  in  the  occasional  manuscript 
that  has  survived,  are  proportionate  either  to  the  theme  itself  or  to 
the  motive  or  instinct  that  must  have  prompted  the  attempt,  it  is 


*  Du  Meril,  Les  Origines  Latines,  etc.  pp.  147-150. 


49 

impossible  to  allow.  The  literary  value  of  both  the  Latin  and  ver- 
nacular drama  to  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  is  extremely 
low.  t  It  would,  indeed,  be  generally  true  to  say  that  the  entire 
pre-Elizabethan  drama  till  we  come  to  the  influential  writings  of 
Gascoigne,  Udall,  Sackville  and  Lyly  possesses,  in  a  strict  sense,  no 
literary  value  whatever.  The  literary  quality,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered, is  an  essential  only  of  the  great  drama.  In  comedy  it  is 
usually  altogether  wanting.  Characterization,  therefore,  may  be 
present  in  a  comparatively  high  degree,  though  the  literary  quality 
of  the  play  be  extremely  mediocre  or  entirely  absent.  In  the 
Liturgical  drama,  however,  there  was  nothing  that  might  prevent 
the  author  from  reproducing  to  the  fullest  all  the  poetic  grandeur 
of  the  Resurrection  and  of  awakening  to  the  utmost  the  idyllic 
charms  and  emotions  that  filled  all  souls  in  presence  of  the  actual 
crib. 

Shortly,  it  is  true,  as  we  leave  the  Liturgical  drama,  the  sacred 
representations  take  on  a  more  practical  character  and  become  more 
and  more  exclusively  a  "Poor  Man's  Bible."  But  in  the  beginning 
this  was  not  so;  the  liturgical  scenes  done  in  the  Sanctuary  were 
devotional  and  artistic,  not  primarily  didactic.  The  liturgical  play- 
wright had  all  the  opportunities,  as  far  as  theme  was  concerned, 
of  the  mediaeval  builder.  How  comes  it,  then,  that  the  Gothic  dra- 
matist dwarfs  into  insignificance  when  set  by  the  Gothic  architect? 
Why  in  the  work  of  the  builder  or  sculptor — Magister  de  vivis 
lapidibus — do  we  feel  the  intimate  relationship  between  the  work 
itself  and  the  ideal  it  sought  to  glorify?  And  why  is  it  that  so 
little,  comparatively,  which  we  know  to  be  characteristic  of  mediae- 
valism  is  perpetuated  in  the  dramatic  remains  ?  * 

Much  of  the  inequality  comes  from  the  necessarily  partial  lights 
in  which  we  are  forced  to  see  them.  Age  adds  a  poetry  to  archi- 
tecture, whereas  the  old  manuscript  is  the  poorest  representative  of 
the  reality ;  it  is  but  the  relic  of  what  took  place  in  the  sanctuary  of 
those  vast  edifices  which  themselves  gave  a  depth  of  meaning  that 
was  impossible  to  be  translated  into  words.  How  little  of  the 
present-day  drama  is  contained  in  the  text.  The  actor  creates  the 
part.  The  plays  that  most  delight  the  audience  are  insipid  to  the 
reader.  They  abound  in  life  and  situation  when  the  business  is 
studied  and  understood,  but,  apart  from  the  accessories  of  presenta- 

t  The  Holy  Latin  Tcmgue,  by  W.  Barry,  Dublin  Review,  Vol.  138,  No.  277. 
•  Michelet,  I/Histoire  de  France,  T.  Ill,  pp.  214  et  seq. 


50 

tion,  the  composition  has  scarcely  literary  value.  It  is  to  its  artistic 
setting  that  the  drama  at  present  owes  its  importance;  it  is  from 
the  presentation  only  that  it  must  be  judged.  Color,  light,  shade, 
silence,  movement,  and,  above  all,  the  personality  of  the  actor  do 
not  pass  into  the  manuscript. 

The  text  of  the  play  is  an  imperfect  substitute  for  any  dramatic 
species  and  particularly  so  when  the  play  or  drama  happens  to  be 
of  an  operatic  nature.  The  Mediaeval  Liturgical  drama  was  essen- 
tially such ;  the  singing  quality  long  preceded  any  action  whatever — 
one  might  even  say  it  was  long  in  advance  of  any  word.  For,  if  we 
go  back  to  the  origin  of  the  Mediaeval  Sequences,  which  entered  so 
largely  into  the  formation  of  the  Liturgical  drama,  we  shall  find 
that  the  oldest  of  them  consisted  only  of  a  single  vowel.  This  was 
due  to  the  nature  and  influence  of  the  Gregorian  Chant  which  in 
this  particular  is  seen  in  its  strongest  antithesis  to  the  Ambrosian 
recitation  and  song.  *  As  the  tone  dominated  the  word  and  as 
the  metrical  and  syllabic  letters  were  set  aside,  a  character  of  abso- 
lute freedom  was  given  to  the  expression  of  the  sentiment  and 
thought.  Subsequently  when  texts  and  full  hymns  were  substituted 
for  the  vowel  sound  much  of  the  original  musical  freedom  was  re- 
tained. At  the  period  when  the  Liturgical  drama  reached  its  fullest 
development.  Sequences  of  imperishable  beauty,  sentiment  and 
melody  were  introduced  into  the  offices  of  the  Church,  and  eccle- 
siastical music  had  reached  an  unparalleled  perfection  in  variety, 
power  and  depth  of  expression.  It  is  of  some  importance  to  notice 
this  fact  if  one  would  interpret  the  true  nature  of  the  Liturgical 
drama.  Unlike  the  dramatic  species  that  will  in  some  way  grow  out 
of  it  the  Liturgical  drama  was  of  a  strongly  operatic  character,  f 


*  The  History  of  Music.     Emil  Naumann,  Vol.  1,  P.  191. 

t  If  music  would  become  a  self-dependant  art  it  was  imperative  that 
the  tone  should  be  liberated  from  the  word.  Pope  St.  Gregory  effected 
this  ransom.  But  as  is  not  unusual  in  the  case  of  radical  changes,  reform 
was  pushed  to  extremes.  As  time  went  on  and  the  tonal  art,  enjoying  a 
free  sphere  of  action,  grew  more  and  more  perfect,  the  tendency  was  to 
effect  an  artistic  combination  of  word  and  sound.  From  the  ninth  to  the 
fourteenth  century  every  musician  of  note  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
perfecting  that  portion  of  the  Mass  between  the  Kyrie  and  the  singing  of 
the  Gospel.  The  renowned  monk  of  St.  Gall,  Tuotilo  (915)  is  intimately 
connected  with  this  movement.  Though  Eckehard  says  that  this  poet, 
painter,  sculptor  and  musician  played  a  Psaltery  "in  a  remarkably  sweet 
manner",  it  is  to  his  work  on  the  tropes — those  short  biblical  and  liturgical 
passages  which  served  to  prolong  the  Kyrie — that  his  fame  is  chiefly  due. 
His  confrere,  Notker,  gave  a  nobler  and  grander  expression  to  the  Sequences 
— aspirational  chants  of  gladness  sung  by  the  choir  and  congregation  after 
the   Kyrie — than    had    been   known   before   his   time.      He   wrote   thirty-five 


51 

Relatively,  if  not  quite  so  essential  as  music  is  in  the  opera  of 
the  present  day,  it  had  been  as  inseparable  from  the  Liturgical 
dramas  as  it  was  from  those  sacred  dramatic  performances  in  the 
Oratory  of  the  Vallicella  which  Palestrina  himself  arranged.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  forming  an  estimate  of  character-presentation  in  the 
Sanctuary  plays,  music  must  not  be  dissociated  from  the  words. 
The  management  of  voices  and  the  beauty  of  the  melodic  phrases 
convey  an  intensity  of  human  feeling  which  is  wholly  indescribable 
and  lost  in  any  manuscript  account.  "Tenebrae  factae  sunt"  is  the 
response  of  the  fifth  lesson  of  Matins  of  Good  Friday.  It  is  the 
brief  Gospel  narrative  of  the  death  of  Jesus.  When,  however,  the 
Palestrinian  setting  is  rendered  by  proper  arrangement  of  voices, 
probably  no  creation  of  any  art  can  produce  a  comparable  effect. 

Again  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  Liturgical  drama 
was  done  in  the  Sanctuary.  This  was  a  very  fitting  theatre  which 
helped  not  a  little  to  sustain  and  perfect  the  dramatic  illusion.  It 
asked  no  great  imaginative  effort  to  build  up  the  simple  stage  neces- 
sary for  an  Easter  Office.  The  empty  spaces  in  the  cathedral  were 
filled  with  splendid  family  tombs  of  marble  and  bronze;  the  dead 
bishop  or  distinguished  canon  reposed  in  a  tomb  that  was  neither 
inferior  nor  unlike  the  new  sepulchre  hewn  from  the  rock  at  which 
Magdalen  wept.  The  symbolism  came  so  very  near  to  what  was 
actual  that  the  impression  must  have  been  effective  and  striking. 
In  an  atmosphere  of  this  kind  the  grand  simplicity  of  the  biblical 

pieces.  A  century  later.  King  Robert,  of  France,  (1031)  wrote  the  Pentecostal 
Sequence,  "Veni  Sancte  Spiritus,"  which  is  sung  to  this  day  during 
Whitsuntide.  From  this  to  the  thirteenth  century,  when  the  poetry  of  the 
Church  reached  its  highest  perfection,  a  remarkable  attention  was  bestowed 
on  these  Sequences.  The  most  prolific  Sequence-writer  of  the  Middle  AgeS, 
Adam  of  St.  Victor,  falls  in  at  this  period.  The  quality  of  his  work  in  this 
species  of  poetry  has  procured  for  him  the  flattering  title,  'the  Schiller  of 
Latin  Church  music',  by  which  is  meant  to  express  the  double  excellence 
of  nobleness  of  language  and  purity  of  melody.  The  Sequences  of  St. 
Bernard,  his  contemporary,  would  be  more  deserving  of  praise  for  at  least 
the  former  of  Adam's  qualities.  The  incomparable  'Dies  Irae'  of  Thomas 
of  Celano,  the  Stabat  Mater  of  Jacopone  Da  Todi,  and  the  two  Corpus 
Christi  Sequences,  Pange  Lingua  and  Lauda  Sion,  by  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
closed  the  classical  period  and  probably  reached  the  classical  ideal  in  this 
species  of  composition.  Concomitantly  with  these  efforts  to  enrich  the 
Liturgy,  the  music  of  the  Church  had  been  steadily  developing.  The 
Liturgical  drama,  as  a  form  of  art,  being  to  a  great  extent  the  outgrowth 
of  this  activity  in  music  and  poetry,  gave  expression  to  the  highest  thought 
and  religious  aspiration  of  mediaeval  life.  Cf.  Naumann,  History  of  Music, 
pp.  202  et  seq.,  also  to  Dr.  Julian's  "Dictionary  of  Hymnology,"  under  the 
title  'Sequence'  and  the  names  of  the  respective  writers.  Dom  Gueranger 
treats  at  length  of  the  Trope  and  Sequence:  Institutions  Liturgiques,  Vol. 
I,  pp.  290-294,  313  passim. 


52 

language,  heightened  and  made  more  appealing  by  its  fusion  with 
the  Gregorian  melodies  of  the  old  Roman  Liturgy,  was  understood 
in  a  manner  that  can  not  adequately  be  appreciated  at  the  present 
day.  Not  the  tombs  only  nor  the  altars,  but  the  statuary,  carvings 
and  paintings  of  this  first  theatre  prepared  the  minds  of  the  audi- 
ence and  gave  to  every  action  an  emphasis  quite  incommunicable  to 
any  manuscript.  *  The  sublime  simplicity  of  the  architectural 
lines,  the  tall  arches,  sombre  masses  of  masonry — the  whole  Gothic 
building  itself  was  a  "poem  in  stone"  that  in  an  era  of  art,  percep- 
tion, and  feeling  lent  to  the  role  a  significance  and  reason  which 
should,  in  order  to  avoid  the  risk  of  a  partial  view,  be  apprised  at 
its  full  value.  It  will  be  ever  impossible  to  reproduce  a  mediaeval 
miHeu  or  the  temperament  of  a  thirteenth-century  audience,  yet  to 
be  just  to  the  characters  in  the  Liturgical  drama  such  a  reproduc- 
tion or  restoration  seems  to  be  indispensable.  Perhaps  at  no  period, 
with  which  literature  has  to  do,  had  there  been  so  wide  a  distance 
between  lofty  conception  and  its  concrete  realization  in  words  as 
during  these  centuries  when  the  drama  was  in  its  beginning.  It 
would  seem  that  the  tendency  was  to  universalize  the  concrete  and 
personal  rather  than  to  reduce  the  general  to  the  particular  and 
tangible.  The  mediaeval  mind  was  capable  of  conceiving  the  higher 
realizations  of  beauty,  but  the  time  to  give  expression  through  the 
medium  of  language  to  such  conceptions  had  not  yet  arrived,  f 
The  idea  suffered  through  the  fault  of  the  medium  that  was  in- 
tended to  make  it  sensible  and  palpable.  The  mediaeval  playwright 
felt  those  static  inspirations  that  filled  his  soul  with  an  ideal  which 
his  deficient  language  prevented  him  from  embodying  in  an  artistic 
form.  The  immanency  of  the  truth  was  felt  by  him ;  helplessness  to 
communicate  it  adequately  through  words  is  the  cause  of  the  weak- 
ness of  his  work. 

Of  the  arts,  architecture  is  not  the  least  in  power  to  reveal  the 
soul  of  man ;  and  as  it  lends  itself  more  readily  than  words  to  the 
production  of  eifects  of  a  more  general  nature,  the  fact  of  an  early 
and  rapid  perfection  of  a  native  architecture  would  go  some  way, 
in  the  absence  of  a  more  direct  proof,  to  show  the  mediaeval  power 
of  conception  and  the  limits  of  its  realization.  The  religious  and 
ethical  sentiment  was  strong  in  the  craftsman  of  the  middle  ages : 
he  had  an  idea  which  he  strove  to  realize,  and  the  nearer  he  ap- 

*  J.  K.  Huysman,  En  Route,  24th  ed.,  pp.  10  ff.,  passim. 
tMichelet,  Histoire  de  France,  Vol.  Ill,  pp.  214-228. 


53 

preached  it,  the  better  was  his  work.  His  work  is  a  sort  of  reflec- 
tion of  his  Hfe ;  the  higher  the  character  and  tone  of  his  life  the  more 
beautiful  the  objects  he  wrought.  There  was  animating  his  work 
a  spiritual  force  which  turns  our  thoughts  from  the  metal  or  stone 
to  the  idea  back  of  the  material.  The  consciousness  at  all  times  of 
the  other  worldly  phases  of  human  life,  the  unlimited  moral  capa- 
bilities of  the  individual,  the  everlasting^  consequences  of  his  conduct, 
the  eternal  nature  of  both  happiness  and  misery,  were  pictured 
with  the  force  of  men  who  felt  keenly  the  spiritual  reality  of  life. 
The  divine  law,  its  sanction,  rewards  and  threats,  were  the  great 
ruling  ideas  vividly  understood  and  felt  by  all — the  concepts,  which 
seem  ever  struggling  for  expression  in  mediaeval  art.  *  They 
were  subjects  of  a  perennial  interest — an  interest  that  was  at  once 
common  and  personal,  and  which  for  this  double  reason,  demanded 
less  emphasis  and  less  detail  to  be  fully  understood.  A  suggestion 
sufficed.  The  thought  was  ever  in  advance  of  the  word,  the  audi- 
ence anticipated  the  actor.  If  the  playwright  lacked  the  sharp  defi- 
nitiveness  of  characters,  it  need  not  be  inferred  that  they  were  in- 
distinct or  their  apprehension  incomplete;  the  creative  audiencCj 
from  his  few  vital  expressions  or  suggestions  or  "single  strokes," 
formed  out  of  the  stock  of  its  own  phantasy  a  vivid  picture  of  a 
complete  personality. 

From  these  considerations  two  inferences  may  be  drawn :  first, 
in  the  Liturgical  drama  characterization  results  not  so  much  from 
any  technical  power  the  playwright  possesses  as  from  the  peculiarly 
imaginative  and  sympathetic  and,  in  every  way,  susceptible  tempera- 
ment of  the  audience.  A  characterization  wrought  in  this  seemingly 
inverted  order  is  none  the  less  real.  The  immense  part  an  inter- 
ested audience  plays  was  not  known,  till  recently,  only  to  genius. 
The  great  poet  has  always  understood  the  secret  of  suggesting,  of 
inciting  the   hearers,   through   his   work   to   follow   his   processes, 

*  Shahan,  The  Middle  Ages,  p.  182,  Cf.  also  Henry  O.  Taylor,  The  Classical 
Heritage  of  the  Middle  Ages,  pp.  245-246.  "The  emotion  as  expressed  in 
classic  literature  was  clear,  definite  and  finite.  Christian  emotion  was  to 
know  no  clarity  or  measure.  It's  supreme  object,  God,  was  infinite;  and 
the  emotions  directed  toward  Him  might  be  vague  and  mystic,  so  unlimited 
was  it.  God  was  infinite  and  man's  soul  eternal;  what  finitude  could  enter 
the  love  between  them?  Mediaeval  hymns  are  childlike,  having  often  narrow 
clearness  in  their  literal  sense;  and  they  may  be  child-like  too.  in  their 
expressed  symbolism.  Their  significance  reaches  far  beyond  their  utterance; 
they  suggest,  they  echo  and  they  listen;  around  them  rolls  the  voice  of 
God,  the  infinitude  of  His  love  and  wrath,  heaven's  chorus  and  hell's  agonies; 
dies  irae,  dies  ilia — that  line  says  little  but  mountains  of  wrath  press  on 
it,  from  which  the  souls  shall  not  escape," 


54 

and  create  after  him.  "For  the  power  to  understand  and  enjoy  a 
character,"  says  Freytag,  "is  attained  only  by  the  self-activity  of 
the  spectator,  meeting  the  creating  artist  helpfully  and  vigorously. 
What  the  poet  and  the  actor  actually  give  in  itself  is  only  single 
strokes;  but  out  of  these  grows  an  apparently  richly  gotten  up 
picture,  in  which  we  divine  and  suppose  the  fulness  of  characteristic 
life,  because  the  poet  and  actor  compel  the  excited  imagination  of 
the  hearer  to  co-operate  with  them,  creating  for  itself."  * 

A  second  inference  is  this:  if  a  playwright  and  actor  only  co- 
operate with  the  hearer  by  giving  suggestions  and  illuminating 
strokes,  defining  the  lines  along  which  the  excited  imagination  is 
to  follow  and  fill  out,  it  is  of  importance  that  the  intensity  of  the 
suggestions  and  the  distinctness  of  the  strokes  be  accurately  known. 
As  the  resultant  personality  created  by  the  hearers  is  so  dependent 
on  the  nature  and  force  of  the  stimuli  supplied  by  the  dramatist,  it 
is  needful  to  take  into  account  not  only  the  words  of  the  actor,  but 
all  the  accessories  of  presentation  must  be  noted — those  contingent 
circumstances  which  in  any  way  intensify,  diminish  or  modify  the 
stimuli  given  the  hearers. 

When  in  the  Liturgical  drama,  the  mutual  relations  of  the  play- 
wright and  audience  are  understood  one  will  appreciate  with  some 
degree  of  accuracy  very  many  stimuli  whose  nature,  appositeness 
and  efficiency  are  not  at  first  apparent,  f  ^  A  just  estimate  of 
characterization  is  quite  out  of  the  question  without  a  knowledge 
of  these  relations.  The  temperament  of  a  Mediaeval  audience,  its 
community  of  thought  and  aspiration,  its  power  to  project  itself 
easily  and  naturally  beyond  the  limit  of  facts  to  the  unseen  realities 
of  faith,  to  realize  in  idea  and  to  embrace  with  the  will  spiritual 
truths,  which,  it  should  be  remembered,  were  unquestionably  re- 
ceived as  the  divinely  sanctioned  laws  of  human  conduct  and  con- 
sequently of  immediate  personal  concern  to  every  one — ^these  char- 
acteristics were  so  many  facilities  for  the  playwright.     A  sugges- 


*  Freytag,  Teehnik  des  Dramas,  pp.   216-217. 
Lee,  Sidney,  Shakespeare  and  the  Modern  Stage,  p.  22. 

t  An  instance  of  what  these  stimuli  might  be  and  of  the  spirit  of  the 
]SIe(Iitieval  drama  in  general,  is  afforded  in  a  thirteenth-centurp  Latin- 
Crerman  play  on  the  Passion.  (Cf.  Du  Meril,  Les  Origines  Latines,  etc.  p. 
126  et  seq.)  In  it  there  is  long  space  given  to  a  very  pathetic  lamentation 
of  the  Blessed  Mother  beside  the  Cross.  It  is  part  in  German  and  part 
in  Latin,  and  in  it  chant  and  speech  alternate.  Half  way  in  the  lament 
occurs  the  rubric:  'Et  per  horam  quiescat  sedendo,  et  iterum  surgat  cantando.' 
During  the  hour  all  action  ceases.     Actors  and  audience  meditate. 


55 

tion  brought  into  immediate  association  all  that  the  people  knew 
about  themselves,  all  that  part  of  their  spiritual  experience  which 
no  one  could  account  for  or  refer  to  any  particular  source.  The 
suggested  truth  played  directly  on  a  thousand  chords  of  associa- 
tion, t  Add  to  these  dramatic  advantages  the  relative  novelty  and 
interest  of  the  theme  dramatized,  its  presentation  at  a  season  *'of 
great  joy  to  all  the  people"  which  long  penitential  preludes  had 
intensified;  then,  the  simplicity  of  the  performance  itself,  which 
scarcely  requiring  any  intellectual  effort  left  the  emotions  and  the 
imaginations  free  to  follow  and  construct;  the  unfeigned  natural- 
ness of  the  dialogue  broken  in  by  the  sighs  of  Magdalen  or  the 
sobs  of  the  bereft  mothers  or  the  shrill  soprano  notes  from  the 
niches  ringing  out  the  Angels'  hymn  of  praise  and  gladness,  or  the 
authoritative  outburst  of  song  coming  from  the  chancel  chorus, 
announcing  the  Infant's  birth — these  were  contrasts  of  no  little  dra- 
matic variety  and  power  which  music  and  the  sacredness  of  the 
surroundings  deepened  and  intensified.  At  every  moment  one  is 
tempted  to  ask,  do  these  Liturgical  dramas  in  any  way  prefigure  the 
modern  opera?  After  all  are  they  not  "a  form  of  theatrical  en- 
tertainment in  which  poetry,  music,  pantomime,  painting  and  the 
plastic  arts  co-operate  on  a  basis  of  mutual  dependence,  or,  better 
perhaps,  interdependence  and  common  aim,  the  inspiring  purpose 
of  all  being  dramatic  expression?"  *  Speaking  of  the  seventy- 
three  Autos  Sacramentales  of  Calderon  who,  perhaps,  is  unequaled 
as  a  writer  of  Sacred  Dramas,  Ticknor  says,  "they  are  all  allegori- 
cal, and  all,  by  the  music  and  show  with  which  they  abounded  are 
nearer  to  operas  than  any  other  class  of  dramas  then  known  in 
Spain."  t 

Be  that  how  it  may,  this  seems  certain — when  the  various  in- 
fluences that  govern  characterization  are  taken  into  account,  valued 
and  looked  at  in  conjoint  operation,  the  characters  in  this  early  , 
species  of  drama  stand  out  from  the  background  of  what  is  common  ' 
to  all  men  in  a  relief  that  is  not  only  individual,  but  personal  and 
broadly  and  sympathetically  human.  This  is  so  whether  we  assist 
at  the  Manger  or  stand  by  the  Cross.  The  characters  speak  what 
they  feel  with  the  thoughtlessness  of  instinct,  with  that  directness 
and  spontaneity  which  is  characteristic  of  all  beginnings  of  expres-  / 

t  Ker,  The  Epic  and  Romance,  p.  32. 

*  Krehbiel,  The  Wagnerian  Drama,  p.  2. 

J  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  Vol.  II,  p.  347. 


56 

sion  through  art.  There  is  in  these  Liturgical  offices  the  absence 
of  all  studied  analysis,  the  arrangement  of  the  action  and  grouping 
of  persons  and  scenes  is  intuitive — all  that  is  technically  dramatic  is 
unknown,  the  situations  are  those  of  actual  life,  the  effects  those 
of  nature.  Not  till  the  drama  is  taken  from  the  sanctuary  does 
the  author  appear  conscious  that  he  is  a  playwright. 

Singly  or  collectively  the  Mediaeval  caste  stands  in  many  points 
of  resemblance  very  close  to  the  persons  of  the  Bible.  The  blend- 
ing of  natural  and  supernatural  motives,  the  mingling  of  the 
promptings  of  purely  human  affection  with  the  formal  reserve  of 
worship, — at  one  time  the  deference  shown  the  sacred  person  of 
Jesus,  who  is  in  the  Liturgical  drama  and  will  be  all  through  the 
religious  stage,  the  central  figure  or  inspiring  principle  in  every 
action,  and  again  the  tone  of  familiarity  in  which  He  is  spoken  of 
constantly  recalls  the  Gospel  days  and  reproduces  in  very  many  in- 
stances the  biblical  scenes  with  wonderful  truth.  Brief  as  these 
Liturgical  scenes  are,  they,  as  their  prototypes  in  the  sacred  writ- 
ings, leave  in  the  mind  an  after-image  which,  by  reason  of  the  few 
direct  and  sincere  utterances,  is  concrete  and  characteristic,  possess- 
ing at  times  remarkable  perspective  and  fulness.  This  will  not  be 
true  to  such  an  extent  in  later  dramatic  developments,  though  in 
these  the  characters  will  discourse  at  more  considerable  length. 

Viewing  the  Liturgical  drama  as  a  whole  and  allowing  for 
the  conventions  in  presentation  to  which  its  operatic  character  en- 
titles it,  one  finds  in  this  earliest  effort  at  dramatization  that  the 
playwright  was  engaged  with  dramatic  material  not  easily  amenable 
to  stage  limitations,  but,  given  the  artist,  capable  of  being  wrought 
into  a  drama,  as  we  shall  see,  of  unequaled  depth  of  power.  The 
''two  functional  ideas"  of  personality  and  responsibility  which  lie 
at  the  basis  of  ethical,  and  consequently  of  dramatic  life,  afforded 
tlie  dramatist  then  as  at  all  times,  an  inexhaustible  subject-matter 
from  one  point  of  view ;  and  from  another,  the  reason  or  motive  or 
incentive  to  expression.  Again,  as  was  pointed  out,  the  two  senses 
which  followed  on  the  activity  of  these  two  ideas  were  so  highly 
developed  in  the  listeners  at  a  Liturgical  play  that  in  consequence 
the  labor  of  the  playwright  was  considerably  lessened.  It  is  some- 
vvhat  misleading,  therefore,  to  state  in  speaking  of  the  Liturgical 
drama  that  ''the  condition  of  any  further  advance  (in  the  Liturgic 
play)  w^as  that  the  play  should  cease  to  be  Liturgic."  As  Mr. 
Chambers,  whose  words  I  quote,  understands  them,  they  are  per- 


57 

fectly  true.  In  the  succeeding  paragraph  he  explains  his  meaning. 
'*It  is,  however,  the  formal  change  with  which  I  am  here  mainly 
concerned.  The  principal  factor  is  certainly  that  tendency  to  ex- 
pansion and  coalescence  in  the  play  which  already  has  been  seen  at 
work   in  the  production  of   such   elaborate   pieces   as   the   Queen 

quaeritis  of  Tours  or  that  of  the  Benedictbeueren  manuscript 

This  culminates  in  the  formation  of  those  great  dramatic  Cycles  of 
which  the  English  Corpus-Christi  plays  are  perhaps,  the  most  com- 
plete examples."  It  was  necessary  that  the  drama  should  become 
more  popular,  to  pass  "out  of  the  hands  of  the  clergy  in  their  naves 
and  choirs,  to  those  of  the  laity  in  their  market-places  and  guild- 
halls." * 

This  change  of  form  was  not  only  what  might  be  desired  as 
an  ideal  condition  of  progress,  but  was,  as  will  be  presently  noted 
and  as  Mr.  Chambers  has  fully  shown,  the  actual  historical  origin 
of  a  new  dramatic  species  and  of  new  varieties  of  characterization. 
It  was  contemporaneous  with  a  parallel  change  or  attempt  at  change 
in  the  object  of  philosophic  thought.  Philosophy  had  hitherto  been 
dealing  with  metaphysical  problems.  Physical  truths — the  universe, 
its  laws  and  facts  and  man  and  his  nature — were  studied  only  in- 
directly as  illustrative  of  inductive  processes  of  reasoning  or,  in 
other  words,  deductions  from  higher  and  fuller  truths  which  were 
more  immediately  the  reflection  of  Wisdom,  the  highest  Truth  or 
Truth  Itself.  Man,  for  the  great  Scholastics,  was  important  for 
his  relation  with  God ;  this  world  and  human  life  had  significance 
because  of  the  next  which  was  everlasting  and  blissful  or  otherwise 
as  man  chose  here.  This  was  the  prevailing  philosophy  of  the 
thirteenth  century  when  the  Liturgical  drama  had  attained  what 
proved  to  be  its  complete  evolution  as  a  dramatic  species.  A  re- 
action set  in  which,  if  it  would  be  xlifficult  to  show  its  direct  influ- 
ence in  any  specific  play,  strikingly  parallels  or  prefigures  in  the 
drama  as  a  species  of  what  was  taking  place  in  Scholastic  disputes 
and  which  was  later  to  find  its  way  into  educational  systems  and 
thence  into  practical  life. 

Humanism  was  the  significant  name  given  to  this  reaction. 
It  was  so  named,  as  we  all  know,  to  Express  its  main  purpose  which 
was  a  protest  against  metaphysical  learning  and  exclusive  attention 
to  divine  things  to  the  neglect  of  things  human.  The  humanist 
would  regard  man,  hypothetically  at  first,  apart  from  religion,  in 
^The  Mediaeval  Stage,  Vol.  II,  pp.  69-70. 


58 

himself  and  in  his  relations  with  men — look  at  him  as  a  microcosm 
in  himself  worthy  of  a  special  attention. 

This  tendency  to  loose  the  bonds  between  the  Creator  and  the 
creature  rapidly  passed  in  the  hands  of  the  philosophers  from  the 
useful  and  hypothetic  holding  apart  of  relations  in  idea  to  the  for- 
mation of  theories,  boldly  empirical,  which  naturally  came  to  be 
taken  for  conclusions  by  the  indiscriminating.  Matters  of  a  more 
immediate  human  interest  were  presented  to  the  thoughts  of  men. 
Theology,  though  still  the  chief,  was  no  longer  the  sole  study.  The 
relations  of  man  with  man  passed  from  the  schools  and  became  sub- 
jects of  popular  discussion.  The  humanists  had  triumphed.  This, 
however,  is  not  the  place  to  follow  out  the  results  of  their  vic- 
tory. * 

But  man  to  know  God  is  a  difficulty, 

Except  by  mean  he  himself  inure, 

Which  is  to  know  God's  creatures  that  be: 

As  first  them  that  be  of  grossest  nature, 

And  then  to  know  them  that  be  more  pure, 

And  so  by  little  and  little  ascending, 

To  know  God's  creatures  and  marvelous  working. 

And  this  wise  man  at  last  shall  come  to 

The  knowledge  of  God  and  His  high  Majesty 

And  so  to  learn  to  do  His  duty,  and  also 

To  deserve  of  his  goodness  partner  to  be. 

Further  on  Nature  tells  Humanity : 

So  likewise  reason,  wit  and  understanding 

Is  given  to  thee,  man,  for  that  thou  shouldst  indeed 

Know  thy  Maker  an4  Cause  of  thine  own  being, 

And  what  the  world  is,  and  wherefore  thou  dost  proceed; 

Wherefore  it  behooveth  thee  of  very  need 

The  cause   of  things   first   to   learn 

And  then  to  know  and  laud  the  high  God  eterne. 

— Dodsley,  pp.  9-10,  15. 

This  humanizing  tendency  which  grew  so  rapidly  and  to  such 
extremes  in  philosophy,  made  its  way  into  the  drama.  At  first 
hardly  perceptible,  as  in  the  Cycles  where  the  Divine  Jesus  is  the 
great  centre  of  all  its  parts,  it  became  more  pronounced  as  we  pass 
to  the  Moral  plays  in  which  man — Humanum  Genus  is  hero  and 
abiding  figure  of  interest,  but  as  he  s.tands  in  his  relations  with  God. 

*  The  Moral  play,  "The  Nature  of  the  Four  Elements,"  the  first  of  its 
kind,  is  an  apology  for  humanisn  in  the  sense  of  opposition  to  purely 
speculative  learning.  It  well  illustrates  the  transitional  point  of  view 
which  would  have  the  study  of  things  created  lead  the  student  step  by 
step  to  "high  matters  invisible." 


59 

In  the  transition  stage,  humanism  and  mediaevaHsm  seem  to  have 
met,  the  caste  is  partly  sacred,  partly  secular.  In  the  purely  secular 
drama  humanism  has  won,  and  human  interests  predominate.  It 
would  be,  of  course,  impossible  for  Shakespeare  to  be  a  partisan ; 
the  harmonious  action  of  divine  and  human  agencies  are  as  insep- 
arable in  the  formation  of  his  characters  as  those  agencies  are  in 
actual  life. 

Change  of  form,  then,  and  more  freedom  of  treatment  was  a 
necessary  condition  of  further  advance  in  dramatic  expression,  and 
so  far  only  was  change  necessitated.  The  Sacred  Dramas  of  Cal- 
deron  will  show  that  nothing  more  was  needed.  It  would  mean  to 
take  evolution  for  dramatic  progression  and  growth,  to  regard  the 
succeeding  species  as  intrinsically  in  advance  of  the  Liturgical 
drama.  It  is  doubtful  if  the  change  just  observed  in  respect  to  the 
object  of  philosophy,  as  it  made  itself  felt  on  the  stage,  had  actually 
been  quite  as  favorable  to  essential  dramatic  progress  as  might  at 
first  be  supposed.  Were  the  immediate  theatres  an  evolution  of  the 
Liturgical  drama?  Were  the  Cycle  dramas.  Moralities  and  Inter- 
ludes a  development  of  the  dramatic  ideas  which,  we  have  seen, 
inspired  the  beginning  of  the  Mediaeval  drama?  Are  they  an  un- 
folding of  these  ideas  along  proportionately  high  and  artistic  lines? 
It  was  imperative  that  the  Liturgical  drama  be  removed  from  the 
Sanctuary,  but  it  is  difficult  to  see  the  intrinsic  dramatic  advance- 
ment which  followed.  "We  can  hardly  call  the  Saint  plays  a  dra- 
matic advance  upon  the  Passion  (Liturgic)  plays,  nor  a  distinct 
link  in  the  chain  of  evolution.  They  are  rather  an  offshoot,  a  side 
growth,  gaining  in  freedom  and  originality,  in  that  their  less  sacred 
material  permitted  some  license  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  but  with  the 
loss  of  the  great  theme  losing  heavily  in  dignity  and  beauty  and 
essential  dramatic  quality.  And  yet,  indirectly,  they  contributed  to 
the  development  of  the  Religious  drama  through  its  original  chan- 
nel." *  Speaking  of  the  initial  stages  in  the  development  of  the 
Moral  play,  Ten  Brink,  who  regards  the  species  as  that  which  unites 
the  Middle  Ages  with  modern  times  in  the  history  of  the  drama, 
says,  "The  Moral  plays  owe  their  origin  to  the  same  spirit  that  in- 
troduced the  so-called  Allegorical  tendency  into  religious  literature 
and  court  poetry;  viz.,  to  the  effort  to  illustrate  moral  doctrines  and 
present  abstract  ideas  in  bodily  form.  Unfortunately  the  drama, 
as  well  as  the  romance,  in  so  doing,  took  the  wrong  path.     Instead 

*  Lee  Bates,  K.  L.,  The  English  Religious  Drama,  pp.  31-32. 


60 

of  illustrating  the  universal  by  the  special,  the  distant  by  the  near, 
the  abstract  and  intellectual  by  the  really  concrete  and  personal — 
in  fact,  instead  of  illustrating  one  thing  by  another  (allegorein)  — 
writers  were  satisfied  with  raising  the  abstract  substantive  into  a 
person,  and  with  dressing  out  this  personage  according  to  its  mean- 
ing and  making  it  speak  and  act."  t  Symonds  is  more  severe  on 
the  Morality.  Speaking  of  its  relation  to  the  Cycles  he  says,  '*\\^e 
might  cctfnpare  it  to  one  of  those  imperfect  organisms  which  have 
long  since  perished  in  the  struggle  for  existence  but  which  interest 
the  physiologist,  both  as  indicating  an  effort  after  development  upon 
a  line  which  proved  to  be  the  weaker,  and  also  as  containing  within 
itself  evidences  of  the  structure  which  finally  succeeded."  * 

At  first  sight  and  from  the  point  of  view  of  character-treatment 
particularly,  this  "unfortunate  choosing  the  wrong  path"  by  the 
writers  of  the  Moralities  could  not  be  of  itself  an  advance.  The 
substitution  of  an  allegorical  figure  for  the  historical  person  of  the 
Liturgical  and  Cyclical  drama  would  seem  to  mark  a  retrogression 
in  respect  to  characterization.  In  what  way  and  to  what  extent  the 
immediate  theatres  contributed  to  the  development  of  the  Liturgical 
drama  will  best  appear  when  each  is  separately  treated ;  here,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  stated  that  only  close  on  the  coming  of  Shakespeare, 
on  the  return  to  historical  subject-matter  do  we  find  genuine  dra- 
matic progression.  Then  it  was  that  the  "loss  of  the  great  theme" 
was  in  a  measure  repaired,  and  "dignity  and  beauty  and  essential 
dramatic  quality"  were  restored  to  dramatic  writing.  In  the  imme- 
diate predecessors  of  Shakespeare,  the  basic  principles,  incipient 
and  informal  in  the  Liturgical  drama  assume  artistic  shape,  and  by 
art  in  the  setting  and  the  interest  of  the  secular  theme,  the  new 
drama  profited  by  what  was  best  in  the  foregone  species  and 
eschewed  what  circumstances  and  tastes  had  rendered  no  longer 
dramatic.  Even  in  the  Cyclic  drama  humanism  had  already  im- 
paired the  usefulness  of  the  machine  which  had  been  so  efficient  up 
to  the  perfection  of  the  Liturgical,  but  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Elizabethan  period  when  humanism  and  secularization  had  tri- 
umphed over  the  metaphysics  of  the  religious  stage,  a  new  motive 
of  interest  was  derived.  It  is  the  beginning  of  the  Chronicle  play 
and  Historical  drama.  The  poet  now  appeals  to  the  patriotic  rather 
than  to  the  religious  sense;  and  the  response  is  equally  effective. 

t  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  1,  p.  297. 

•  Symonds,  J.  A.  The  Predecessors  of  Shakespeare,  p.  181. 


61 

He  points  to  the  deeds  of  the  great  national  heroes,  rather  than  to 
the  works  that  formed  the  mediaeval  standard  of  heroism.  * 
Then,  only  saints  were  heroes;  now,  the  purely  human  chivalrous 
achievements  of  a  royal  ancestor  are  deemed  more  deserving  of 
praise,  t 

So  the  Liturgical  drama  through  the  silent  but  influential  work- 
ings of  humanism  came  to  an  end  as  a  species;  yet  only  its  acci- 
dents, it  may  be  said,  passed  away.  The  form  and  topic  alone  were 
changed.  The  interest  of  the  subject-matter  and  of  the  more  dra- 
matic treatment  took  the  place  of  the  old  convention  and  theme 
which  the  keener  spiritual  sense  of  earlier  times  supplied  with  what 
was  wanting  dramatically  or  in  attractiveness.  So  much  is  this  the 
case  that  it  appeals  to  me  as  applicable  to  this  thirteenth-century 
dramatic  species  what  Ruskin  writes  of  thirteenth-century  architec- 
ture. ''The  art  of  the  thirteenth  century  is  the  foundation  of  all 
art — not  merely  the  foundation,  but  the  root  of  it;  that  is  to  say, 
succeeding  art  is  not  merely  built  upon  it,  but  was  all  comprehended 
in  it  and  was  developed  out  of  it!  The  nature  of  this  growth  he 
explains  elsewhere.  It  was  not  the  growth  of  the  child  into  the 
man,  but  rather  that  of  "the  chrysalis  into  the  butterfl).  There 
was  an  entire  change  of  the  habits,  food,  method  of  existence,  and 
heart  of  the  whole  creature."  X  With  what  amount  of  truth  this 
figurative  language  expresses  the  growth  of  religious  dramatic 
species  and  their  relation  to  the  Secular  drama,  it  is  too  early  yet  to 
calculate,  but  from  what  has  been  said  on  the  Liturgical  drama, 
Ruskin's  statement  on  thirteenth-century  art  in  general  will  find  no 
exception  in  the  dramatic  art  of  that  time.  No  one  will  doubt  that 
its  spirit,  its  substance,  its  essential  dramatic  quality,  its  abiding 


*  Shahan,  T.  J.,  The  Middle  Ages,  pp.  182  et  scq. 

t  Schelling,  F.  E.,  The  Queen's  Progress,  etc.  pp.  163-164.  Relative 
to  scenes  in  a  play  of  "hary  vi",  Martin  Henslowe's  Diary,  Thomas  Nash 
wrote:  "Nay,  what  if  I  prove  plays  to  be  no  extreme  but  a  rare  exercise 
of  virtue?  First,  for  the  subject  of  them,  for  the  most  part  is  borrowed  out 
of  our  English  chroniclers,  wherein  our  forefathers'  valiant  acts  (that  have 
buried  in  rusty  brass  and  worm-eaten  books)  are  revived,  and  they  them- 
selves raised  from  the  grave  of  oblivion,  and  brought  to  plead  their  aged 
honors  in  open  presence;  than  which  what  can  be  sharper  reproof  of  these 
degenerate,  effeminate  days  of  ours?  How  would  it  have  joyed  brave 
Talbot,  the  terror  of  the  French,  to  think  that  after  he  had  lain  two  hundred 
years  in  his  tomb,  he  should  triumph  again  on  the  stage,  and  have  hia 
bones  new  embalmed  with  the  tears  of  ten  thousand  spectators  at  least 
(at  several  times),  who  in  the  tragedian  that  represents  has  person,  imagine 
they  behold  him  fresh  bleeding." 

%  Ruskin,  Lectures  on  Architecture,  pp.  84,  116. 


62 

consciousness  of  the  constituents  that  make  up  the  highest  moral 
life,  and  consequently,  the  highest  imitation  of  that  life,  passed  into 
the  new  indigenous  growth  of  national  spirit — the  Historical  drama. 

What  has  been  said  thus  far  was  applicable  from  the  point  of 
view  of  character-presentation  to  the  European  drama  generally. 
In  the  Liturgical  drama  as  in  the  liturgy  whence  it  was  derived, 
only  very  feeble  and  indistinct  lines  of  national  traits  or  character- 
istics can  be  perceived.  There  are  many  reasons  why  it  should  be 
so.  An  obvious  one  is  this — there  was  at  the  time  no  national 
spirit,  no  fatherland,  properly  called.  This  is  a  fact  of  history. 
The  awakening  of  a  national  consciousness  did  not  come  till  long 
after  the  heyday  of  the  Liturgical  drama,  and  this  feeling  of  na- 
tional instead  of  Christian  brotherhood  did  not  make  itself  markedly 
felt  as  a  motive  on  the  English  stage,  as  Mr.  Schelling  points  out, 
till  far  into  the  sixteenth  century  at  the  rise  of  the  Historical 
drama,  t 

Moreover,  a  further  reason  came  from  the  nature  of  these  plays 
themselves.  The  order  of  worship  that  the  Liturgical  dramas 
sought  to  beautify  and  solemnize  was  even  in  its  details  for  the  most 
part,  strictly  uniform,  and  the  language  in  which  they  were  written 
was  quite,  or  almost  exclusively,  Latin — a  fact  which  counts  for 
much  in  the  question  of  character-treatment.  No  matter  how  widely 
and  well  understood  the  Latin  language  had  been  among  the  people 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  it  never  became  the  vernacular  in  the  sense 
that  it  grew  from  the  soul-life  of  the  fathers  of  the  race  and  was 
imbued  in  consequence  with  hallowed  memories  of  a  golden  past. 
It  ever  retained  its  sacred  and  scholastic  characteristics :  understood, 
indeed,  and  well  fitted  for  the  respectful  utterances  of  worship  but 
not  the  language  of  popular  thought,  aspiration,  and  desire.  No 
Latin  word  could  ever  recall  to  a  mediaeval  Englishman  any  past 
incident  of  intimate  personal  interest  or  enkindle  in  his  breast  any 
embers  of  national  pride.  A  profane  drama  in  Latin  for  an  edu- 
cated Englishman  of  those  times  might  win  his  admiration  and 
probably  satisfy  him  intellectually  to  some  extent,  but  it  would 
awaken  little  emotion.  The  Latin  Liturgical  drama  owed  its  limited 
characterization  to  the  fact  that  it  appealed  to  the  religious  sense 
which,  though  common  to  all  the  audience,  was  personal  with  every 
listener.    This  was  the  secret  of  its  longevity  and  comparative  im- 


t  The  Chronical  Play,  p.  26. 


63 

portance.  On  the  force  of  his  appeal  the  Liturgical  poet  elicited  from 
an  interested  audience  that  helpful  co-operation  which  every  dra- 
matic author  needs  indispensably.  In  the  Cyclic  drama  the  appeal 
to  the  religious  sense  retains  its  effectiveness — the  interest  in  things 
spiritual  is  yet  only  slightly  diminished  by  Humanism — and  the 
poet  will  have  the  further  advantage  that  he  is  working  with  the 
vernacular,  and  consequently  may  count  on  more  effective  help  from 
the  hearers.  Owing  to  the  introduction  of  the  vernacular  and  con- 
sequent popularization  of  the  drama  we  shall  find  in  the  next  chapter 
what  may  be  called  the  beginning  of  national  traits  limned  with 
some  distinctness  on  the  features  of  the  biblical  caste.  It  will  be  a 
step  toward  the  Historical  drama. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


CHARACTERIIATION  IN  THK  CYCLIC  DRAMA 

From  the  sanctuary  the  Liturgical  drama  passed  to  the  door  of 
the  Church.  It  had  grown  to  such  proportions  that  it  was  rightly 
deemed  irreverent  to  multiply  platforms  within  the  Holy  Place. 
This  event  is  important  as  it  marks  a  transition  from  the  species  of 
drama  which  was  based  mainly  on  the  Ritual  to  a  species  which  de- 
rived its  material  almost  exclusively  from  Scriptural  and  Apocryphal 
sources.  This  new  drama  was  a  direct  emanation  to  the  degree  just 
pointed  out,  from  that  done  by  the  clergy  within  the  Church.  It 
became  more  secular  in  character,  though  the  Bible  furnished  the 
subject-matter  and  clerics  were  still  the  playwrights  and  for  some 
time  the  actors  as  well.  Once,  however,  that  the  Sacred  drama  had 
severed  direct  dependence  on  the  worship  prescribed  by  the  Ritual, 
a  greater  freedom  obtained  in  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  the 
material.  The  story  might  now  become  a  drama  in  a  truer  sense 
of  the  word,  and  the  action  that  at  first  had  been  represented  dis- 
jointedly  might  now  articulate  and  form  a  whole.  Such  was  the 
actual  process  of  development.  Scenes  were  presented  serially, 
principally  after  the  chronological  order  of  biblical  events,  in  which 
was  treated  the  whole  round  of  Hebrew  history,  beginning  with 
the  presentation  of  Creation  and  terminating  with  a  play  entitled 
Doomsday.  It  is  to  this  succession  of  plays  that  the  title  Cyclic 
drama  has  been  given.  There  are  four  of  these  cycles  which  con- 
cern us  mainly  at  present: — The  York  Cycle  (c.  1340-1350)  con- 
taining forty-eight  plays;  the  Towenley  Cycle  (c.  1350)  containing 
thirty-two;  the  Coventry  (c.  1400-1450)  forty-two;  and  the  Chester 
Cycle  (c.  1400)  containing  twenty-five  plays.  The  following  com- 
parative table,  which  shows  the  order  of  presentation,  will  be  help- 
ful in  understanding  the  author's  unity  of  design  —  a  factor  of 
supreme  importance  in  an  estimate  of  character-treatment  in  the 
Cyclic  drama.  * 


*  A  more  minute  comparative  list  of  eighty-nine  episodes  will  be  found 
in  Mr.  E.  K.  Chambers'  The  Mediaeval  Stage,  vol.  II.,  pp.  321-323.  It 
is  based  on  that  drawn  up  by  Professor  Hohlfield  in  "Anglia"  XI.,  241.    Mr. 


65 


Subjects. 

York.  To 

•wneley. 

Coventry 

.  Chester. 

Creation  and  Fall  of  the  Angels 

1,2,3 

1 

1 

1,2 

The  Fall  of  Adam 

4,5,6 

1 

2 

2 

Sacrifice  of  Cain  and  Abel 

7 

2 

3 

2 

Lamech  and  Cain 

0 

0 

4 

0 

Noah  and  the  Flood 

8,9 

3 

4 

3 

Abraham,  Lot  and  Melchisedech 

0 

0 

0 

4 

Abraham  and  Isaac 

la 

4 

5 

4 

Isaac  and  His  Children 

0 

5 

0 

0 

Jacob's  Sojourn  with  Laban 

and  Return 

0 

5 

0 

0 

The  Departure  from  Egypt 

11 

8 

0 

9 

Moses  and  the  Ten  Plagues 

0 

7 

6 

5 

Balaam  and  Balaak 

0 

0 

0 

5 

Processus  of  Prophets 

12 

7 

7 

0 

The  Barrenness  of  Ann 

P 

0 

8 

0 

Mary  in  the  Temple 

0 

0 

9 

0 

Mary's  Betrothment 

0 

0 

10 

0 

Augustus  and  Cyrenius 

0 

9 

0 

0 

The  Annunciation 

12 

10 

11 

6 

The  Visit  to  Elizabeth 

12 

11 

13 

6 

Joseph's  Anxiety 

13 

10 

12 

6 

The  Trial  of  Joseph -Mary 

0 

0 

14 

0 

The  Nativity 

10 

0 

15 

6 

The  Sibyl  and  Oct  avian 

0 

0 

0 

is 

The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds 

15 

12,13 

16 

7 

The  Magi 

16,17 

14 

17 

8,9 

The  Presentation  of  the  Infant 

41 

17 

18 

11 

The  Flight  into  Egypt 

18 

15 

19 

10 

Slaughter  of  the  Innocents 

19 

16 

19 

10 

Christ  Among  the  Doctors 

20 

18 

20 

11 

Baptism  of  Jesus 

21 

19 

21 

0 

The  Temptation 

22 

0 

22 

12 

The  Transfiguration 

23 

0 

0 

0 

The  Woman  Taken  in  Adultery 

24 

0 

23 

12 

Healing  of  the  Blind  Man 

0 

0 

0 

13 

Raising  of  Lazarus 

24 

31 

24 

13 

Chambers  follows  the  Scriptural  order  which  is  not  always  that  of  the  plays. 
He  adds  to  the  data  of  the  four  Cycles  above  that  of  the  Cornish  plays. 
Also  comparative  tables  of  the  English  Cycles  of  Religious  plays  is  given 
by  Miss  Toulmin  Smith  in  her  volume,  York  Plays,  pp.  112-113.  She 
follows  chiefly  the  titles  in  the  manuscripts.  Her  list  is  extended  by  Francis 
H.  Stoddard,  University  of  California,  Library  Bulletin  No.  8.  I  have  made 
the  abridgment  here  given.  As  will  be  seen  it  presents  not  only  the  mauscript 
title  but  also  the  title  of  a  play  within  a  plaj  which  the  playwright  loosely 
included  under  one  heading.  In  this  I  have  followed  the  list  to  be  found  in 
Professor  Hohlfield's,  Die  Altenenglischen  Kollectiv-Misterien,  pp.  25-26, 
(Halle  1888). 


66 


Subjects 
Entry  into  Jerusalem 
Conspiracy   of  the  Jews 
Treachery  of  Judas 
The  Last  Supper 
The  Agony  and  Betrayal 
Jesus  before  the  High  Priest 
Jesus  before  Pilate 
Jesus  before  Herod 
Condemnation  of  Jesus 
Remorse  of  Judas 
Dream  of  Pilate's  Wife 
The  Way   to    Calvary 
The  Crucifixion 
Descent  from  the  Cross  and  Burial  36 


York.  Towneley.  Coventry.  Chester. 


25 

0 

26 

14 

26 

20 

25 

14 

26 

20 

27 

14 

27 

20 

27 

15 

28 

20 

28 

15 

29 

21 

30 

16 

30 

0 

30 

16 

31 

0 

29,30 

16 

32,33 

22 

32 

16 

32 

32 

32 

0 

30 

0 

31 

0 

34 

22 

32 

17 

35,36 

23 

30 

17 

36 

23 

34 

17 

0 

24 

0 

0 

37 

25 

33,35 

18 

38 

26 

36 

19 

38 

26 

39 

19 

39 

26 

37 

0 

40 

27 

38 

20 

42 

28 

0 

0 

43 

29 

39 

21 

44 

0 

40 

22 

45 

0 

41 

0 

46 

0 

0 

0 

47 

0 

41 

0 

0 

0 

0 

23 

0 

0 

0 

24 

48 

30 

42 

25 

Casting  of  Lots 

Harrowing  of  Hell 

Resurrection 

Three   Maries 

Christ  and  Magdalen 

Travellers  to  Emmaus 

Incredulity  of  Thomas 

The  Ascension 

Outpouring  of  the  Holy  Spirit 

Death  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 

Mary  Appears  to  Thomas 

The  Assumption 

Signs  of  the  Judgment 

Works  and  Ruin  of  Antichrist 

Doomsday 

Already  in  the  Latin  Liturgical  drama  one  finds  the  origin  of 
a  practice  which  was  destined  to  be  perfected  by  subsequent  Eng- 
lish writers  of  religious  plays.  In  the  first  dramatic  species  the 
tendency  of  grouping  cognate  incidents  around  the  central  action 
had  set  in;  the  great  centres  being  the  Birth  and  Death  of  our 
Saviour.  This  was  the  main  idea  and  accretion  took  place  in  either 
direction.  To  introduce  a  Christmas  play,  for  instance,  the  play- 
wright reached  back  into  the  Old  Testament  and  had  the  Messianic 
prophecies  spoken  by  the  prophets  in  person  under  the  auspices 
usually  of  St.  Augustine  and  in  the  presence  of  a  synagogue  of 
Jews.  The  brief  scenes  of  the  Annunciation  and  Visit  followed  the 
long  Processus  Prophetanmi,  and  brought  the  author  to  his  subject, 
the  Nativity.  Then  by  way  of  conclusion  he  goes  forward  into 
New  Testament  history  and  much  else  concurrent  legend,  presenting 
in  turn  the  appearance  of  the  Star,  the  Coming  of  the  Shepherds 


67 

and  Kings,  Herod's  anxiety,  and  closes  with  the  marvelous  hap- 
penings on  occasion  of  the  Flight  to  Egypt. 

A  similar  process  of  expansion  developed  the  Easter  Liturgical 
scenes.  To  illustrate  this  movement  one  needs  only  follow  the 
growth  of  a  thirteenth-century  Quern  Quaeritis.  From  the  simple 
scene  at  the  monument,  to  which  we  have  referred,  the  Easter  play 
enlarged  itself  to  vaster  proportions  than  the  representations  of  the 
Nativity.  In  the  manuscript  of  an  Easter  play  to  be  found  in  the 
library  of  Munich  the  opening  scene  is  a  chorus  singing  some 
verses  from  the  Gospel  of  Nicodemus.  *  This  done  Jesus  passes 
through  the  stage  to  the  seashore  and  there  calls  Andrew  and  Peter. 
Then  follows  the  cure  of  a  blind-man  and  the  sojourn  at  the  house 
of  Zacheus.  Next  a  chorus  greets  Jesus  on  the  street  and  children 
spread  garments  and  palm  leaves  on  His  way.  Following  the  entry 
into  Jerusalem,  Jesus  is  met  by  Simon  the  Pharisee  with  whom  he 
goes  to  dine.  After  this  a  curious  scene  takes  place.  Mary  Magda- 
len comes  on  the  stage  singing  the  praises  of  a  worldly  life.  Soon 
she  is  joined  by  a  group  of  girls  like  herself,  and  the  merry  bevy 
goes  singing  to  a  shop  where  cosmetics  are  sold.  An  admirer  fol- 
lows them  and  speaks  briefly  with  Mary  who  sings  in  the  vernacular 
(Old  German)  for  the  benefit  of  all.  She  is  converted  by  the  visit 
of  an  Angel,  mourns  her  sins  and  with  the  ointment  that  she  has 
bought  from  her  former  dealer,  she  goes  to  Simon's  house  and 
anoints  the  Lord.  This  long  episode  is  followed  in  rapid  succession 
by  the  Raising  of  Lazarus,  the  Last  Supper,  the  Betrayal,  the 
Prayer  in  the  Garden  and  finally  the  Passion  to  the  Crucifixion 
which  brings  the  poet  to  the  point  where  the  primitive  Quem 
Quaeritis  began.  The  play  closes  in  its  present  form  with  the  scene 
in  which  Joseph  of  Arimathaea  treats  wth  Pilate  (in  German)  con- 
cerning the  disposition  of  the  Body. 

On  precisely  the  same  principle  the  vernacular  Cyclic  drama 
was  rounded  out.  The  scenes  emanating  from  the  main  incident 
owed  their  full  explanation  to  its  presentation.  Whether  they  led 
to  this  quasi  climax  or  followed  upon  it,  in  neither  case,  strictly 
speaking,  do  they  stand  to  it  in  the  relation  of  cause  and  effect. 
This  is  particularly  true  of  what  preceded  which  was  meant  merely 
to  make  the  main  action  more  easily  understood.  Sometimes,  how- 
ever, the  preparatory  scenes  are  more  than  explanatory ;  they  supply 


Du  Meril,  Let  Originea  Latines,  pp.  126-147. 


68 

the  needed  atmosphere  and  foreshadow  to  some  extent  the  central 
incident.  In  the  scenes  that  follow  the  principle  action  of  the  play 
the  relation  is  more  intimate.  They  follow  as  logical  happenings, 
so  to  speak,  from  the  climacteric  event  and  form  a  fitting  and 
necessary  counterpart  to  the  long  beginning. 

Not  infrequently,  however,  a  subject  was  a  complete  scene  in 
itself  and  had  to  be  acted  as  such.  A  number  of  isolated  plays 
might  be  pointed  out  which  were  only  remotely  connected  with  what 
preceeded  and  came  after  them  in  their  respective  Cycles.  The  plays, 
for  instance,  of  Abraham  and  Isaac  or  of  the  Travellers  to  Kmmaus 
can  very  well  stand  alone.  Yet  both  these  scenes  are  in  place  in 
the  Cycle.  The  former  play  prefigures  the  sacrifice  on  Calvary; 
and  in  the  York  Cycle  this  symbolism  is  borne  out  at  the  expense 
of  dramatic  effect.*  Abraham  does  not  seem  wholy  unconscious 
that  he  is  playing  the  part  of  the  Eternal  Father  whose  words  he 
paraphrases  in  the  oblation  of  Isaac,  and  Isaac,  himself  who  is  over 
thirty  years  old,  is  unnatural  in  his  desire  to  lay  down  his  life.  And 
the  Travellers  to  Emniaus,  though  largely  an  independent  produc- 
tion, fits  into  the  Cyclic  arrangement  quite  naturally  and  gives  a 
climacteric  effect  to  the  Incredulity  of  Thomas  who  becomes  there- 
after a  prominent  character  in  his  relations  with  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

It  is  important  at  this  point  to  bear  in  mind  that  the  utmost 
freedom  was  exercised  in  the  formation  of  the  Cycles.  The  history 
of  their  growth  into  their  present  immutability  is  analogous  in  a 
degree  to  the  growth  of  their  Sacred  Sources.  The  plays  were  not 
the  composition  of  any  one  man  nor  of  any  one  time.  Some  of 
them  were  pre -Cyclic,  some  were  taken  from  other  Cycles  and 
incorporated  with  slight  remodeling  into  the  seasonal  presentation, 
others  were  set  in  to  fill  a  breach  in  the  action,  and  others  simply 
for  emphasis  or  purely  in  deference  to  an  influential  visitor,  or  merely 
as  a  mark  of  courtesy  to  a  Guild.  The  theatric  manager  then,  as 
now,  made  perfectly  free  with  his  material,  the  effort,  as  percepti- 
ble then  as  at  the  present  day,  being  to  fit  the  word  to  the  action 
and  everything  to  existing  circumstances.  "An  incessant  process 
of  separating  and  uniting,  of  extending  and  curtailing,  marks-  the 
history  of  the  Liturgical  drama,  and  indeed  of  the  Mediaeval 
drama  generally,  "f 


*  Ten  Brink,  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  II,  p.  271. 
t  Ibidem,  p.  235. 


69 

If  one  studies  from  the  point  of  view  of  character  -  treatment 
the  general  arrangements  of  the  episodes  that  make  up  a  Cycle- 
series,  he  will  easily  notice  the  evident  purpose  of  the  playwright  to 
secure  variety  in  the  material,  and  variety  as  well  as  emphasis  in  his 
manner  of  attaining  the  dsired  effect.  In  a  first  place  one  observes 
what  is  foremost  in  the  composer's  mind  and  that  which  influences 
considerably  his  method  of  treatment,  viz.,  the  symbolic  character 
with  which  he  invests  the  writings  of  the  Old  Testament.  The 
plays  treating  pre-Christian  history  are  ever  anticipating,  not  so 
much  verbally  as  in  manner  and  thought,  the  plays  which  will  deal 
with  the  history  of  Christ.  It  is  as  type  to  fulfillment;  what  passes 
on  in  the  Old  Testament  scenes  is  prefigurative,  and  looks  forward 
to  its  realization  in  the  New.  At  times  even  one  may  perceive  that 
the  playwright  has  in  view  a  polemical  or  apologetic  purpose  and 
consequently  is  at  special  pains  to  bring  the  prophetic  or  symbolic 
scene  strongly  to  the  foreground. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  abiding  consciousness  of  the  parallelism 
between  both  Testaments  contributed  much  to  unity  of  design  and 
gave  an  impression  of  totality  otherwise  impossible  from  so  remotely 
connected  incidents.  * '  The  episodes  chosen  from  this  part  of  Scrip- 
ture are  the  Creation  and  Fall  of  Man,  the  Sacrifice  of  Cain  and 
Abel  and  the  Departure  of  the  Israelites  from  Egypt.  This  selection 
is  evidently  made  for  the  purpose  of  symbolism,  the  prime  intention 
of  the  dramatist  being  to  illustrate  from  the  narrative  of  the  Old 
Testament  the  nature  and  effect  of  sin,  as  rendering  necessary  the 
Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemer,  and  also  to  set  forth  the  types  of  the 
Coming  of  the  Messiah.  In  the  York  Cycle  the  playwright  never 
lost  sight  of  the  doctrinal  subject,  and  has  employed  his  dramatic 
powers  to  bring  this  out  in  just  relief."* 

This  symbolism  between  the  Testaments  is  a  point  to  be  noted; 
but  it  did  not  long  continue  in  the  playwright's  mind  to  be  a  simple 
contrast  between  books.  The  birth  of  the  Messiah  and  the  Atone- 
ment by  His  Death  were  climacteric  events  which  gave  a  fullness  of 
meaning  to  all  antecedent  scenes.  These  were  the  two  determing 
facts,  from  them  the  series  had  grown  and  each  term  of  it  was 
vitally  connected  with  them.  "The  starting  point  of  the  modern 
drama  in  the  Ressurection  of  Christ  from  the  dead  regarded  not 
simply  as  a  miraculous  fact,  but  as  the  central  doctrine  of  the  Chris- 


•  Courthopc,  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I,  Chap.  X^ 


70 

tian  faith,  the  Crowning  act  in  the  Redemption  on  which  depended 
the  future  happiness  or  misery  of  every  member  of  the  human  race. 
It  had  been  the  endeavor  of  the  Christian  clergy,  from  the  earhest 
times,  to  bring  home  the  reality  of  this  cardinal  event  to  the  wor- 
shiper by  means  of  the  senses  as  well  as  of  the  reason/'  * 

As  pageant  followed  pageant  "excedinge  orderlye,"  the  main 
argument  was  never  lost  sight  of;  a  continuous  unfolding  of  the 
theme  went  on,  successively  gaining  in  interest  as  the  spectator  be- 
held the  actual  fulfilment  of  that  which  had  been  foreshadowed. 
This,  broadly  speaking,  may  be  said  respecting  the  unity  of  the 
Cycles :  the  Old  Testament  events  are  in  respect  to  the  central  action 
of  the  New  Testament  what  the  introductory  and  pre-climacteric 
events  are  to  the  climax  of  the  regular  drama.  It  is  a  unity 
that  is  more  strictly  one  than  the  historical  unity  of  the  originals,  in 
this  that  the  mediaeval  playwright,  viewing  the  persons  of  the  Bible 
as  his  contemporaries,  animates  them  with  a  sameness  of  spirit  to 
a  degree  impossible  to  the  Sacred  writers.  The  cyclic  dramatists 
presented  the  Scriptural  character  sometimes  very  faithfully  as  far 
as  the  Scriptural  data  went,  but,  that  failing,  the  playwright  drew 
on  his  experience.  This  circumstance  and  the  necessity  of  selecting 
congruous  scenes,  if  he  would  be  true  to  his  purpose,  contributed 
much  to  the  unity  of  the  whole  cyclic  drama.  Moreover,  the  free- 
dom he  allowed  himself,  particularly  with  his  uncanonical  material 
which  naturally  he  would  direct  in  a  special  manner  to  his  main 
point  of  view,  gave  him  an  immense  advantage  over  the  Biblical 
writer  whose  object  was  not  to  offer  commentaries  but  to  tell  facts,  f 


*  Courthope.  W.,  "A  History  of  English  Poetry,"  Vol.  I,  p.  332. 

fMr.  Tiinison,  Dramatic  Traditions  of  the  Dark  Ages,  pp.  253-254 
suggests  a  principle  of  dramatic  unity  in  the  Religious  drama  supplementary 
of  those  present€d  in  the  text.  "One  cause  of  this  neglect  (of  Seneca's 
tragedies)  was  that  the  serious  side  of  the  drama  was  supplied  by  religion. 
Not  only  was  the  liturgy  a  drama  in  itself,  but  the  new  fashion  of  pious 
plays  founded  on  scriptural  narratives  was  more  deeply  thoughtful  than 
the  world  now  is  apt  to  suppose.  The  prophets  of  the  Old  Testament  had 
developed  a  philosophy  of  history  which  was  a  romance,  an  epic  and  a 
drama  all  in  one.  .  '.  .  The  unity  of  this  epic,  romance  or  drama  lies 
in  the  necessary  continuity  of  men's  struggle  with  sin.  Its  form  is  a 
trilogy;  man's  fall,  his  redemption,  his  compulsory  appearance  before  God 
on  the  day  of  judgment.  The  fully  developed  passion  play  (cycle-drama) 
took  in  all  humanity  in  all  its  varieties  of  virtue  and  vice,  wit  and 
stupidity,  humor  and  solemnity,  wisdom  and  folly;  it  went  from  good  to 
bad,  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous,  from  horse-play  to  prayer,  revealing 
the  whole  individual  life  and  the  whole  course  of  history.  It  was  rude 
in  its  form  but  wonderful  in  its  scope,  and  the  modern  world  has  not 
yet  gone   beyond   its  hprizop  with   all   the  boasted   culture   of   the   preseqt 


71 

Before  passing  to  the  persons  of  the  plays,  a  somewhat  more 
detailed  notice  of  the  several  cycles — not  of  their  relations  among 
themselves,  but  with  a  view  to  the  construction  or  presentation  of 
the  separate  plays,  and  the  relation  and  interdependence  of  the  plays 
on  one  other  within  the  cycle — will  help  to  the  understanding  of  the 
characters  and  indirectly  illustrate  some  statements  made  in  the  pre- 
ceding paragraphs. 

There  are  many  reasons  why  the  York  Cycle  should  be  taken 
as  the  representative  of  the  cyclic  species,  t  It  is  the  fullest 
cycle  extant,  numbering  forty-eight  plays.  Though  in  the  year  1568, 
the  advocates  of  the  New  Learning  "perused  and  otherwise  amend- 
ed" the  York  manuscript,  still  it  remains  probably  the  truest  repre- 
sentative of  the  original  popular  play  of  the  cyclic  type.  The  York 
cycle,  apart  from  its  dramatic  superiority,  has  the  further  distinc- 
tion of  being  the  only  series  th^t  is  known  definitely  to  have  been 
played  by  the  shopkeepers  and  trade-guilds  on  the  occasion  of  the 
feast  of  Corpus  Christi. 

The  Cycle  begins  with  the  Barkers'  Pageant  on  Creation.  It 
is  a  tripartite  play  of  160  lines  in  all.  The  first  scene  or  part  is  in 
Heaven,  the  second  in  Hell  and  the  last  back  again  in  Heaven.  As 
a  specimen  of  the  mediaeval  dramatist's  power  of  contrasting  per- 
sons and  scenes  this  play  may  be  recomrnended.  The  contrast  is 
more  artistically  done  here  because  there  is  less  exaggeration  than 
will  be  met  with  after  elsewhere.  A  play  of  contrasts  almost  al- 
ways overdrawn  and  very  superficial  was  the  great  means  the  old 
playwright  used  to  individualize  and  reach  his  effects.  Deus  him- 
self opens  the  first  scene  with  an  explanation  of  his  purpose;  his 
own  glory  and  the  happiness  of  his  creatures  lead  him  to  create. 
Then  he  proceeds  at  once  to  the  task  of  creation.  He  is  interrupted, 
or  probably  only  entertained  in  his  work  by  the  singing  of  the  Te 
Deum.  The  newly  created  angelic  chorus  already  participates  in 
his  bliss.  The  Creator  goes  on.  Heaven,  he  declares,  is  for  the 
Angels,  his  worthiest  work,  and  the  earth  will  be  given  to  faithful 
men.    Lucifer  he  creates  chief  of  the  highest  heavenly  power ; 


t  Hohlfield,  A.,  Die  Altenenglischen  Kolkctiv-Misterien,  pp.  68-69. 

day.  In  truth  it  was  not  merely  a  mediaeval  conception.  It  was  a 
variant  of  the  plain  thought  of  the  New  Testament,  of  the  Hebrew  prophets 
as  they  have  always  been  read  by  Christians,  of  the  fathers  of  the  Church, 
those  who  wrote  in  Greek  as  well  as  those  who  wrote  in  Latin," 


72 


"Of  all  the  mightes  I  have  made  most  nexte  after  me, 
I  make  the  als  master  and  merour  of  my  mighte, 
I  beelde  the  here  baycely  in  the  blys  for  to  be, 
I  name  the  for  Lucifer,  als  berar  of  lyght, 
No  thynge  here  sail  the  be  derand, 
In  this  blys  sail  be  yhour  beeldyng. 
And  have  al  welth  in  youre  weledyng. 
Ay  why  Is  yhe  ar  buxumly  berande." 

At  this  point  the  angels  again  break  forth  in  song,  "  Sandus, 
sandus^  sandus,  Dominus  Deus  sabaoth.'^  Silence  being  restored,  a 
seraph  speaks  the  admiration  and  the  gratitude  of  all : 

A!  mercyful  maker,  full  mckill  es  thi  mighte, 

That  all  this  warke  at  a  worde  worthely  has  wroghte, 

Ay  loved  be  that  lufly  lorde  of  his  lighte, 

That  us  thus  mighty  has  made  that  was  righte  noghte; 

This  lowly  and  grateful  acknowledgment  of  bounty  to  the  Almighty 
is  in  contrast  with  the  words  that  follow.  They  are  those  of  the 
vain-glorious  Lucifer.  * '  I  am  like  a  lorde,  bounteous  and  powerful, ' ' 
he  says, 

"All  the  myrthe  that  is  made  is  markide  in  me. 
The  hemes  of  my  brightode  ar  byrnande  so  bryghte. 
And  so  semely  in  syghte  myselfe  now  I  se, 
For  lyke  a  lorde  am  I  lefte  to  lende  in  this  lighte," 

He  goes  on  to  compare  himself  to  his  companions  ;  his  beauty  and 
power  find  no  match.  The  playright  is  careful  to  suggest  no 
thought  of  thankfulness  to  this  falling  angel.  A  cherub,  with  a 
side  glance  no  doubt  at  Lucifer,  advises,  "  while  we  are  faithful  we 
need  fear  no  harm."  But  his  counsel  is  not  received  for  immediately 
a  Lucifer  proselyte  begins  : 

"O!  what  I  am  fetys  and  fayre  and  fiygured  full  fytt! 
The  forme  of  all  fayrhede  apon  me  es  feste." 

Next,  the  seraph  that  began  encourages  now  the  "praise  of  God 
with  steadfast  voice."  He  pledges  the  fealty  of  all  to  the  Lord,  and 
adds  that  if  anyone  should  prove  felonous  to  his  Maker,  by  the  very 
fact  he  rightly  becomes  unworthy  to  "be  f ede  with  the  fode  of  thi 
fayre  face."  By  this  time  Lucifer  is  possessed  of  the  idea  that  he 
himself  is  worthy  of  worship.  As  he  offers  some  reasons  why  their 
praises  should  be  directed  to  him,  all  of  a  sudden  the  floor  gives 
way,  and  the  scene  closes  with  the  cries  of  the  devils  for  help. 

The  next  part  of  the  play  opens  on  the  plane  of  Hell.     Lucifer 
is  the  first  speaker, 


73 


"Owte,  owte!  harrowe!  helpless,  slyke  bote  at  es  here 
This  is  a  dongon  of  dole  that  I  am  to-dyghte." 
The  heat  here  and  the  loss  of  his  comeliness  which  is  now  ' '  blackened 
and  bio  "  afflict  Lucifer  particularly.  But  the  further  cause  of  his 
discomfiture  is  that  which  he  has  to  bear  from  his  companions. 
They  wrangle  with  him  as  a  cause  of  their  fall,  and  so  belabor  him 
as  to  force  his  cry, 

"Owte  on  yhow!  lurdens,  yhe  smore  me  in  smoke." 
We  are  next  taken  to  the  third  scene  which  is  in  Heaven.  The 
assembled  Angels,  through  a  cherub,  offer  their  thanksgivings  to 
God  for  his  '  *  rightwyness ' '  and  '  *  merciful  mighte.  Deus,  in  some 
thirty  lines,  gives  reason  for  the  origin  of  evil,  tells  the  faithful 
angels  of  his  intention  to  make  man,  and  to  divide  evenly  into  day 
and  night  the  darkness  that  overspread  the  earth  on  the  occasion  of 
the  Fall. 

This  was  the  Barkers'  Pageant.  Of  it  Mr.  Pollard  says,  "The 
York  play  on  the  subject  may  certainly  claim  pre-eminence  over  its 
rivals.  It  is  full  of  dramatic  vigour,  and  is  pervaded  by  a  certain 
homely  grandeur  of  style,  which  contrasts  very  effectively  with  the 
baldness  of  the  Coventry  playwright  or  the  turgidity  of  the  Chester.* 
The  next  play  in  the  cycle,  that  of  the  Playsterers,  carries  on  the 
work  of  Creation  to  the  fifth  day.  Deus  is  the  only  speaker  in  this 
seemingly  uninteresting  play,  but  undoubtedly  he  had  a  number  of 
active  co-operators  working  in  silence.  If  this  was  not  so  there 
would  be  but  little  justification  for  the  presentation  at  all.  That 
the  creation  of  the  firmament,  division  of  waters,  creation  and 
distribution  of  animals  were  allotted  to  the  guild  of  Plasterers  is  a 
presumption  that  more  than  mere  narration  of  the  work  took  place. f 
If  there  were  not  silent  workmen  actually  in  that  pageant.  Deus 
Himself  displayed  prearranged  material.  This  play  would  illustrate 
what  has  been  said  of  the  difficulty  to  form  an  accurate  estimate  of 
character- treatment  from  the  manuscript  account.  How,  for 
instance,  the  "moo  sutyll  werkys,"  which  Deus  in  one  place 
promises  to  "asse-say,"  fitted  in  with  the  words  of  the  text,  it  is 
impossible  to  decide.  Happily  collateral  information  is  sufficiently 
abundant  to  warrant  the  conclusion  that  the  play  by  the  Plasterers 
was  considerably  realistic  and  formed  an  agreeable  contrast  to  the 
serious  matter  which  preceded  and  which  will  follow.  X 


*  Pollard,  A.  W.,  English  Miracle  Plays,  Moralities  and  Interludes,  4th 
ed.,  p.  177. 

t  L.  Cledat,  Le  Theatre  en  France  au  Moyen  Age,  VII,  p.  15,  et  teq. 


74 

The  Cardmakers  treat  the  last  work  of  creation,  that  of  Adam 
and  Eve.    The  five  days'  work  is  finished  and  its  Creator  looks  com- 
placently upon  it.     He  finds  that  among  all  His  earthly  creations 
there  is  not  a  "skyful  beeste."    He  resolves  to  make  Adam  and  Eve. 
They  thank  him  for  his  great  favor  and  pledge  him  fidelity.     This 
pageant  is  intimately  connected  with  the  Fuller's  play  which  deals 
with  the  installation  in  Paradise.    The  sentiment  in  the  one  is  much 
like  that  in  others :  repeated  expressions  of  wonderment,  thankful- 
ness and  obedience.    Scarcely  has  the  Fuller's  pageant  been  wheeled 
away  when  a  new  actor,  Satan  himself,  arrives  in  the  Cooper's 
"carre."    He  opens  the  play  of  the  Fall  from  Eden,  expressing  his 
dissatisfaction  that  God  should  assume  human  nature  in  preference 
to  angelic.     The  reference  he  makes  to  the  fairness  of  his  former 
appearance  recalled  to  the  audience  the  Barkers'  play.     Assuming 
the  shape  of  a  worm,  he  appears  before  Eve  at  the  gate  of  Para- 
dise and  conducts  with  her  a  dialogue  of  remarkable  shrewdness 
and  point.     It  should  be  noted,  in  this  connection,  that  the  biblical 
account  of  the  Fall  is  meagre,  so  that  the  fundament  of  world-wis- 
dom and  good-sense  on  which  this  conversation  rests,  the  indifferent, 
altruistic  tones  which  Satan  aflfects  are  met  with  only  in  the  play. 
The  idea  alone  was  borrowed,  the  nature  of  the  "bad  bargayne,"  as 
Adam  later  calls  the  dialogue,  and  its  entire  management,  fell  to  the 
Yorkshire  playwright.    Eve,  desirous  of  the  "wirshippe"  that  Satan 
has  promised  will  follow  the  eating  of  the  apple,  is  naturally  con- 
ceived by  the  writer  of  the  play  as  impatient  to  have  Adam  eat. 
"Byte  on  boldely,  for  it  is  trewe, — we  shall  be  goddis  and  knowe  all 
thyngs."    Adam  and  Eve  are  then  cursed  by  God  and  driven  by  an 
Angel  from  Eden,  but  the  barring  of  the  gates  to  Paradise  is  re- 
served for  the  Armorers  in  the  next  pageant.  This  play  recapitu- 
lates much  that  passed  at  the  close  of  the  preceding.     But  it  makes 
at  least  one  step  in  advance.    The  angered  Angel  attributes  the  fall 
directly  to  Adam,  and  Adam  lays  the  blame  upon  Eve,  who,  after 
no  little  altercation  with  her  husband,  finally  confesses  her  guilt  and 
then  all  is  at  peace.     The  action  of  this  play  is  well  sustained  and 
throughout  much  to  the  main  purpose.    The  forenoon  of  their  hap- 
piness is  ever  present  to  the  two  outcasts,  and  embitters  their  grief 
as  they  suffer  the  heat  of  the  day  and  listen  to  the  hard  words  of 
the  Angel.     Their  efforts  to  comfort  each  other  while  wiping  the 
sweat  off  their  brows  are  touches  from  daily  life, 


75 

Next  follows  the  Sacrifice  of  Cain  and  Abel.  An  Angel  ex- 
poses the  necessity  of  offering  tithes  to  God.  Abel  listens  to  the 
divine  messenger  and  shows  himself  willing  to  obey.  Cain  ridicules 
the  idea.  His  answer  to  the  reasons  his  brother  urges  has  all  the 
point  and  appositeness  of  the  Satanic  logic  before  referred  to : 

"Ya!  deuell  me  thynketh  that  werke  were  waste. 
That  he  gaffe  geffe  hym  agayne. 

To  see 

No  we  fekyll  frenshippe  for  to  fraste. 

Me  thynketh  ther  is  in  hym  sarteyne. 

If  he  be  moste  in  myghte  and  mayne. 

What  nede  has  he?'* 

Abel  understands  all  this  but  maintains  that  free  gifts  are  pleasing 
to  God.  What  Cain's  answer  was  is  missing,  for  the  two  leaves 
that  must  have  contained  it  and  the  motives  for  the  slaying  of  Abel 
have  been  cut  out.  An  insignificant  fellow,  named  Brewbarret 
(Mischief maker)  who  after  the  murder  of  Abel  helps  Cain  in  the 
field,  was  introduced  into  the  play  probably  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. The  induction  of  a  harvest  scene  (in  which  Brewbarrett  in 
coming  from  the  cornfield  trips  and  breaks  his  toe  and  soothes  his 
agony  with  his  master's  ale)  was  a  relief  in  the  action.  It  may 
have  been  introduced  after  the  fratricide,  before  that  scene  was  ex- 
puned  from  the  text,  and  in  this  case  it  would  be  the  connecting 
action  between  the  murder  and  the  nemesis.  Later  it  will  be  more 
in  place  to  speak  of  the  artistic  as  well  as  the  dramatic  value  of 
Cain's  workman  who  serves  as  an  indispensable  medium  through 
which  the  new  experience  of  the  fratricide  fittingly  finds  expression. 
For  our  immediate  purpose  as  the  play  stands  the  pastoral  scene 
serves  to  heighten  the  last  act  of  the  play — the  scene  between  the 
vindictive  Angel  and  the  impious  murderer  who  goes  so  far  as  to 
smite  the  heavenly  messenger  "eveyn  on  the  crown." 

The  Deluge  is  the  next  biblical  event  dramatized  in  the  York 
cycle.  Its  presentation  was  entrusted  to  the  Shipwrights,  Fisher- 
men and  Mariners.  Apart  from  the  prelude  of  the  first  and  the 
epilogue  to  the  second,  it  is  well  to  note  that  these  plays  are  of  a 
strongly  secular  character.  Their  religious  import  is,  of  course, 
never  lost  sight  of,  but  the  manual  job  inseparable  from  the  pre- 
sentation is  what  is  most  in  view.  Though  much,  particularly  in 
the  construction  of  the  first  of  these  plays  was  already  at  hand  in 
the  Bible,  still,  touches  of  current  life  and  usage  are  evident  through- 
out the  scenes.    The  professionalism  displayed  by  the  Shipwrights 


76 

and  Mariners  in  the  building  and  manning  of  the  Ark  together  with 
the  domestic  annoyances  that  beset  the  pious  patriarch  must  have 
afforded  a  world  of  diversion  to  everybody. 

The"  preceding  appeal  to  the  senses  refreshed  the  audience  for 
the  Bookbinders'  play,  Abraham's  Sacrifice.  The  trial  of  Abraham's 
faith  was  a  ver}^  popular  subject  of  dramatization.  No  less  than  six 
plays  treating  of  it  are  extant.  If,  as  was  elsewhere  alleged,  the 
York  writer  by  an  initial  error  in  his  conception  of  a  full-grown  Isaac 
forfeited  a  dramatic  advantage,  in  his  treatment  of  Abraham,  he  has 
perhaps  no  equal.  The  conflict  that  was  raging  within  the  father's 
breast  on  his  way  to  the  Land  of  Vision  reaches  its  highest  pitch 
when  on  the  top  of  Mount  Moriah,  Isaac  asked: 

"Fadir,  I  see  here  woode  and  fyre, 
Bot  wher-of  sail  oure  ofFerand  be?" 

Abraham  waives  the  question,  answering  vaguely  : 

"Sertis,  son,  gude  God  oure  sufiraynde  syre 
Sail  ordayne  it  in  good  degre." 

At  this  point  I  can  see  why  it  might  have  occurred  to  the  York 
^  writer,  even  apart  from  any  typical  consideration,  to  break  away 
from  the  tradition  of  the  stage  and  treat  an  Isaac  of  * '  thirty  yere 
and  more  sum  dele."  It  afforded  him  a  motive  of  great  importance 
that  was  scarcely  possible  with  a  younger  Isaac.  The  aged  patriarch 
had  far  greater  difficulties  in  complying  with  the  Divine  command, 
which  was  his  m.ain  anxiety,  when  its  fulfilment  was  contingent 
upon  the  will,  not  of  a  boy,  over  whom  his  control  was  absolute, 
but  of  a  man  advanced  in  years.  Here  it  was  more  than  a  matter 
of  sentiment,  the  question  of  a  becoming  possibility  was  involved. 
Indeed,  that  Abraham  felt  this  difficulty  all  through  the  three  days' 
journey  appears  from  his  prayer  on  reaching  the  mountain.  After 
evading  the  question  above  .  referred  to  concerning  the  victim, 
Abraham  prays  : 

"Grete  God!  that  all  this  worlde  has  wrought 
And  grathelj'  gouernes  goods  and  ill, 
Tiiu  graunte  me  myghte  so  that  I  movvght 
Thy  commaundments  to  full-fill. 
And  gyffe  my  flessche  groche  or  greue  oght, 
Or  sertis  my  saul  assentte  ther-till, 
To  byrne  all  that  I  hidir  broght, 
I  sail  nocht  spare  yf  I  shoulde  spille." 

Isaac  relieves  his  father  of  any  fear  he  may  have  entertained  on  this 
score  by  the  willingness  with  which  he  obeys.     He  even  counsels 


77 

that  he  be  bound  :  "  I  am  ferde  that  ye  sail  fynde,  my  force  your 
forward  to  withstaunde. "  He  carries  his  resignation,  unfortunately, 
too  far,  as  though  he  would  play  on  the  feelings  of  his  father  ; 
"Thy  wordes  makis  me  my  wangges  wette,"  says  Abraham.  In 
the  Towneley  play  here  there  is  an  unwonted  tenderness  of  expres- 
sion that  is  all  the  more  remarkable  as  coming  from  the  cycle  which 
deliberately  aims  at  turning  into  fun  every  such  sentiment.  ' '  What 
water  shotes  in  both  myn  eyn  ! 

I  were  lever  than  al  wardly  wyn, 
That  I  had  fon  hym  onys  unkynde; 
Bot  no  defawt  I  found  hym  in, 
I  wolde  be  dede  for  hym  or  pynde, 
To  slo  hym  thus  I  thynk,  grete  syn." 

However,  in  the  York  play,  Isaac  at  times  seems  to  be  attached  to 
life  :  "  A  !  dere  fadir,'lyff  is  full  swete,  the  drede  of  dede  dos<s  all 
my  dere."  But  this  is  only  momentary.  "  Isaac  spoils  the  impres- 
sion he  has  made,"  says  Ten  Brink,  'when  after  his  deliverance 
from  death  he  repeats  :  "I  would  gladly  have  suffered  death.  Lord, 
according  to  Thy  will."  * 

There  is  much  variety  of  life  and  action  in  the  next  play.  The 
Departure  of  the  Israelites  from  Egypt,  which  the  playwright  treats 
with  ease  and  sufficiency.  The  judgment  he  displays  in  the 
conception  of  the  caste,  in  the  relative  distribution  of  parts  and  in 
the  transition  of  scenes  and  features  of  the  play  which  call  for  special 
mention.  Pharaoh  and  his  counsellors,  though  somewhat  overdone, 
are  by  no  means  so  exaggerated  in  their  speech  or  behavior  as  in 
other  mediaeval  presentations  of  royal  ancient  assemblies.  Moses, 
who  keeps  "the  bisshoppe  Jetro  schepe,"  on  the  slope  of  Mount 
Sinai,  opens  a  quiet  scene  that  contrasts  very  effectively  with  the 
troubled  discussions  at  the  court  of  the  king.  In  the  play  no 
mention  is  made  of  Moses'  natural  qualifications  to  undertake  the 
Divine  embassy  to  Pharaoh  ;  he  prays  Dei:^;t  in  the  bush  to  hold  him 
excused  because  of  the  ill-favor  in  which  he  is  held  at  court. 
Assured  of  the  heavenly  assistance,  he  protests  no  longer.  He 
visits  his  people  and  encourages  them  to  hope.  He  goes  to  the 
palace  of  Pharaoh  and  delivers  his  message  boldly.  Throughout 
he  is  hero  ;  the  king's  advisers  dwindle  into  insignificance  beside 
Israel's  deliverer.  The  scene  that  presents  all  Egypt  suffering  from 
the  plagues  is  made  especially  effective  by  directing  the  whole  brunt 


♦  History  of  English  Literature,  Vol.  II,  part  1,  p.  271. 


T8 

of  divine  anger  against  the  king.  His  personal  afflictions  are  multi- 
plied by  the  ceaseless  importunities  of  his  people  begging  relief. 
The  play  ends  with  a  scene  at  the  Red  Sea.  The  Israelites  have 
just  crossed  the  waters  dry  shod,  when  the  pursuing  Pharaoh  ar- 
rives on  the  opposite  bank.  Encouraging  his  army  to  follow,  the 
Icing  steps  into  the  dried  sea-bed : 

"Hefe  uppe  youre  hartes  ay  to  Mahownde, 

He  will  be  nere  us  in  oure  nede — 

Owte!  ay  herrowe!  devill,  I  drowne!" 

A  boy  in  the  Hebrew  camp  calls  for  a  song  of  victory. 

With  this  play  closes  the  part  of  the  Cycle  derived  from  Old 
Testament  history  and  legend.  It  is  important  from  what  has  been 
said  on  the  typical  character  and  treatment  of  these  plays  to  notice 
a  last  instance  of  this  symbolism  in  the  Deliverance-scene  of 
*'Goddis  folke"  and  the  destruction  of  their  enemies  which  will  find 
its  parallel  in  the  Passion  scenes,  the  Resurrection  and  Marian  plays 
and  the  Doomday's  pageant  at  the  close  of  the  Cycle. 

So  far  the  eleven  preceding,  plays  have  been  purely  prefigura- 
tive.  Of  this  the  playwright  himself  was  aware,  as  his  prologue  to 
the  next  play,  the  Annunciation  and  Visit^  of  Mary  to  Elizabeth, 
sufficiently  testifies.  These  scenes  severally  and  collectively  were 
dramatic,  however ;  there  was  a  struggle,  not  between  abstract  prin- 
ciples of  good  and  evil,  but  between  the  persons  of  Lucifer  and 
Deus  and  their  respective  allies.  *  This  antagonism  makes  itself 
felt  from  the  beginning.  The  creation  of  man  to  fill  the  seats  of 
the  dethroned  angels  embittered  Lucifer  and  his  fellows  with 
jealousy  toward  the  human  race.  This  hatred  for  man  and  the  de- 
sire to  revenge  himself  on  God,  and  particularly  to  thwart  the  Crea- 
tor's design  respecting  man  were  the  motives  which  prompted  Luci- 


*  In  the  Towenley  Cycle  this  personal  opposition  between  good  and 
evil  is  shown  even  more  impressively  than  in  the  corresponding  York  play. 
As  the  Angelic  choir  is  singing  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Creator 
for  the  works  he  has  wrought  and  particularly  for  the  brilliancy  with  which 
he  has  surrounded  Lucifer,  Deus  takes  occasion  to  descend  from  his  throne 
and  walks  to  the  rear  of  the  stage.  Lucifer  already  inflated  with  the 
veneration  accorded  him  by  the  choir  mounts  the  vacant  seat  and  actually 
usurps  the  throne  of  Deus.  He  calls  on  the  assembled  angels  to  decide 
if  it  does  not  become  him  as  well  as  the  Creator. 

"Say,  fellowes,  how  semys  now  to  me 
To'  sit  in  sey te  of  trynyte  ? 
I  am  so  bright  of  ich  a  lym 
I  trow  me  seme  as  well  as  hym." 
The  angels  take  sides  and  the  Evil  One  and  his  followers,  hurled  from 
€rod'»  preiftnc«,  begin  their  everlasting  enmity  against  the  good. 


T9 

fer,  as  the  playwright  explained  at  the  outset.  It  was  an  explana- 
tion that  was  extremely  palpable  to  a  mediaeval  audience.  For 
every  listener  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil  assumed  very  con- 
crete shape.  Nothing  was  so  real  as  the  activity  of  the  devil  and 
his  emissaries.  Their  more  sensible  presences  were  frequent  on  the 
stage,  and  their  ubiquitous  stimuli  to  evil  were  never  absent  from 
any  act.  These  formed  the  dramatic  interest  of  every  play;  they 
gave  rise  to  that  opposition  between  right  and  wrong  within  the 
hero,  without  which  the  necessary  dramatic  struggle  of  the  will 
against  opposing  forces  would  be  impossible. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  at  an  epoch  when  such  an 
abiding  consciousness  of  the  strife  between  good  and  evil  in  man 
was  so  vivid,  this  was  favorable  to  the  treatment  of  dramatic  char- 
acters. Characterization  in  the  drama,  it  should  be  remembered,  is 
not  so  dependent  on  freedom  of  language  and  elegance  of  diction  as 
not  to  exist  in  a  high  degree,  even  where  the  speech  is  undeveloped, 
unmusical,  and  halting.  Many  forces  enter  into  the  production  of  the 
persons  in  a  play.  In  the  Old  Testament  series  just  outlined,  the 
opening  play  dealt  with  the  origin  of  evil.  It  went  to  the  extent  of 
personifying  the  Evil  principle  in  its  opposition  to  the  principle  of 
Good.  The  opposition  thus  dramatized  at  the  outset  was  illustrated 
in  the  succeeding  pageants.  The  impression  that  this  first  scene 
made  on  the  mind  of  spectator  was  emphasized,  broadened  and 
deepened  as  the  cycle  unrolled  severally  its  concrete  and  varied 
illustrations.  Each  scene  in  its  degree  reflected  an  aspect  of  the 
contest.  The  triumphs  of  Lucifer  in  the  Fall  of  Adam,  in  the 
death  of  innocent  Abel,  in  the  bondage  of  God's  Elect,  show  the 
nature  and  greatness  of  his  malice  which  informs,  as  it  were,  his 
insatiable  jealousy  toward  man  and  persistent  desire  of  revenge  on  f 
God.  Evil  is  on  the  ascendency  and  will  continue  to  advance  till  it  ^ 
has  reached  its  climax  in  the  Crucifixion  of  the  Saviour  Himself.  ' 
The  snatching  of  Noah  and  his  kindred  from  the  devouring  waters 
of  the  deluge  and  the  deliverance  of  God's  chosen  ones  after  four 
hundred  years  of  servitude  are  the  meagre  successes  on  the  side  of 
righteousness,  which  are  dramatically  necessary  to  keep  interest  in 
the  conflict. 

These  eleven  scenes,  roughly  speaking,  may  be  regarded  as 
prefiguring  the  New  Testament  action.  They  have  been  dramatic ; 
there  was  an  external  struggle  between  two  strong  heroes,  and  a 
struggle  which  was  within  the  soul  of  man.     The  basal  principle 


11 


80 


of  all  dramatic  writing  is  here,  crudely  expressed,  no  doubt,  but  it 
is  none  the  less  justly  divined.  It  is  the  idea  which  is  pushed  to 
its  limits  in  the  allegorical  Moral  plays  and  it  is  also  the  verj'  idea 
that  will  be  perfected  in  the  purely  secular  drama. 

So  far  satan  triumphant.  It  is  his  ' '  hour, ' '  for  the  insignificant 
losses  he  has  suffered  appear  of  no  consequence  to  him,  proud  spirit. 
From  now  on  the  interest  of  the  play  is  much  more  intense  ;  and 
from  the  viewpoint  of  struggle  or  conflict,  at  least,  between  the 
contending  forces,  there  is  a  vital  unity.  The  two  introductory 
plays  that  intervene  between  the  Exodus  and  the  Nativity,  bring 
us  to  the  great  crisis  in  the  action.  Each  of  the  numerous  scenes 
thereafter  (and  no  fewer  than  twenty  pageants  roll  between  the 
Nativity  and  the  Crucifixion)  is  an  upward  step  to  the  climax. 
The  hour  of  darkness  quickly  passes  away  and  the  reign  of  Evil  is 
at  an  end.  The  victorious  harrowing  of  Hell  follows  immediately 
the  Mortificacio  Christi — the  Butchers'  pageant.  Then  in  direct 
succession  follow  the  glorious  scenes,  expressive  of  the  lasting  rei^n 
of  undisturbed  peace  and  glory — the  glory  surrounding  the  Risen 
Christ,  His  Virgin  Mother  and  the  Just  of  Doomsday.  Deus  will 
pass  sentence  on  His  enemies  in  these  unmerciful  words  : 

"  Ye  cursid  caytLfifs  of  Kaymes  kynne. 
That  neuere  me  comforte  in  my  care 
I  an  ye  for  euer  will  twynne. 
In  dole  to  dwelle  for  eueremare; 
Youre  bittir  bales  schall  neuere  blynne, 
That  ye  schall  haue  whan  ye  come  thare. 

•  »«*«• 

Ther-fore  till  hell  I  schall  you  synke, 
Weele  are  ye  worthy  to  go  that  gate," 

But  those  who  battled  with  Him  and  shared  in  His  defeats  will  now 
be  made  partakers  of  His  glory. 

"  Mi  blissid  childre  on  my  righte  hande, 
Your  dome  this  day  ye  thar  not  drede, 
Your  liflfe  in  lyking  schall  be  lede, 
Commes  to  the  kyngdome  ay  lastand. 
That  you  is  dight  for  youre  goode  dede, 
Full  blithe  may  ye  be  where  ye  stande, 
For  mekill  in  heuene  schall  be  youre  mede." 

Whether  this  unity  of  purpose  is  to  be  accredited  to  the  playwright's 
sense  of  dramatic  values  or  to  the  scriptural  history  to  which  he  is 
so  much  indebted  is  not  our  present  concern.  Our  aim  has  been 
solely  to  find  if  there  existed  a  unity  of  outline  or  design  with  the 


81 

hope  of  determining  more  fully  what  impression  the  presentation 
of  the  cycle,  as  a  whole,  might  have  made  on  the  sympathetic  on- 
looker. To  whom  to  attribute  the  creation  of  this  unity  of  impres- 
sion is  a  later  question  of  comparatively  little  import  to  our  subject, 
which  has  to  do  with  the  existence  or  non-existence  of  the  impres- 
sion itself.  The  honor,  however,  may  be  approximately  equalized 
when  something  further  is  said  on  the  construction  of  each  scene 
and  the  connection  of  play  with  play  in  the  New  Testament  series. 
In  the  York  Cycle,  the  dramas  presenting  the  scenes  of  the 
Annunciation  and  Visit  of  Mary  to  Elizabeth  connects  the  Old 
Testament  plays  with  those  of  the  New.  The  Redemption  of  Fallen 
Man  or  the  lasting  triumph  of  good  over  evil  is  the  foremost  idea 
in  the  composer's  mind  and  underlies  all  his  work.  Redemption  is 
the  subject  of  the  prologue  to  this  connecting  play.  The  speaker 
summarizes  the  havoc  the  Evil  one  has  wrought  in  God's  creation 
and  immediately  turns  to  the  question  of  an  approaching  atonement 
and  triumph.  His  reference  to  prophecy  happily  fills  up  the  gap 
between  his  subject  and  the  Exodus.  The  play  itself  is  built  along 
the  simplest  lines.  The  scenes  of  the  Annunciation  of  the  angel 
and  of  Mary  at  Elizabeth's  house  possess  an  idyllic  charm  which 
is  characteristic  of  the  mediaeval  dramatist  at  his  best.  The 
next  play,  drawn  from  apocryphal  and  legendary  sources  shows 
some  inventiveness  on  the  part  of  the  playwright  and  afforded 
him  much  opportunity  to  characterize.  He  does  define  Joseph's 
anxiety  and  sets  him  in  contrast  with  the  quiet  resignation  of 
his  spouse  and  her  maidens.  In  some  earlier  presentations  of 
Joseph's  Troubles  about  Mary  the  scene  was  treated  in  a  comic  vein 
and  was  not  free  from  vulgar  associations.  The  York  play,  how- 
ever, reflects  the  moderate  spirit  of  its  author.  Of  him.  Professor 
Ward  says,  that  he  shows  a  special  tenderness  to  St.  Joseph.  The 
playwright  treats  him,  although  from  a  wholly  human  point  of  view, 
with  a  degree  of  res{>ect  not  always  vouchsafed  to  this  saint  in  the 
religious  drama.  It  is  to  this  respectful  treatment  that  he  is  in- 
debted for  the  truthful  and  effective  picture  he  presents  even  to  the 
reader's  mind.  No  presentation  of  this  scene  comes  nearer  to  the 
spirit  of  the  apocryphal  source  nor  emphasizes  better  the  mysterious 
silence  of  Mary  which  the  gospel  intimates  in  contrast  with  the  ever 
increasing,  wholly  human  anxiety  of  Joseph.  When  warned  in  a 
dream  not  to  fear  to  take  unto  him  his  wife,  he  asks  forgiveness 
of  Mary:     "Yha,  Marie,  I  am  to  blame,  for  wordis  lang  are  I  to 


82 

the  spak/'  And  then  follows  a  really  natural  turn,  "But  gadir  same 
now  all  our  gere ;  slike  poure  wede  as  we  were,  and  prike  tham  in 
a  pak.  Till  Bedlam  bus  me  it  here,  for  litill  thyng  will  women  dere. 
Helpe  up  nowe  on  my  bak." 

"The  Journey  to  Bethlehem  and  the  Birth  of  Jesus"  is  the  next 
play,  and  it  affords  ample  opportunity  to  the  playwright  to  develop 
the  characters  of  Joseph  and  Mary.  The  patriarch  who  is  repre- 
sented as  very  advanced  in  years,  experiences  acutely  the  burden 
of  the  road  and  yet  makes  belief  as  though  he  felt  it  not.  All  his 
anxiety,  however,  is  for  Mary  and  his  talk  with  her  on  the  way  is 
most  encouraging.  She,  on  the  contrary,  has  no  thought  of  herself ; 
she  is  quite  absorbed  on  the  precious  Burden  she  bears,  and  seems 
inattentive  to  Joseph's  forebodings  about  the  inhospitable  recep- 
tion that  awaits  them  at  their  journey's  end.  If  we  picture  to  our- 
selves the  aged  Joseph  on  reaching  Bethlehem  as  the  playwright 
represents  him — bearing  the  "pak"  on  his  rheumatic  shoulders 
"uppe  and  doune  thrugh  diuerse  stretis,"  in  search  of  a  dwelling- 
place  for  his  "weyke  and  werie  doughtir,"  at  an  hour  and  season 
when  "it  waxis  right  myrke  unto  the  sight  and  colde  withall" — 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  the  whole  repertory  of  the  mediaeval 
stage  a  more  delicate  delineation  than  that  which  the  Tile-Thatcher 
here  gives : 

Joseph:       "For  siithe  I  can  no  socoure  see, 

but  belde  vs  with  there  bestea. 
And  yf  we  here  all  ryght  abide, 
'  We  shall  be  stormed  in  this  steede; 

The  walls  are  doune  on  like  a  side. 
The  rufle  is  rayned  aboven  oure  hede, 

als  haue  I  roo,  ^ 

Say,  Marie  Doughtir,  what  is  thy  rede? 

How  sail  we  doo? 
For  in  grete  nede  nowe  are  we  stedde, 
As  thou  thyselffe  the  soth  may  see, 
For  here  is  nowthir  cloth  ne  bedde, 
And  we  are  weyke  and  all  werie, 

and   fayne  wolde  reste. 
Now,  gracious  God,  for  thy  mercie! 

wisse  vs  the  best. 
Marie:  God  will  vs  wisse,  full  wele  with  ye, 

Tlier-fore,  Joseph,  be  of  gud  chere. 

A  scene,  dramatically  effective,  very  naturally  follows  the  entry  into 
the  shed.  As  the  night  is  cold  and  dark— a  veritable  English  Christ- 
mas-tide—Joseph goes  to  get  a  light  and  gather  iome  fuel.     In  his 


83 


absence  the  Babe  is  born.  Mary  falls  on  her  knees  before  her  Son 
and  worships  Him  with  motherly  devotion.  Joseph,  who  knows 
nothing  of  the  mystery  that  has  taken  place  within  the  stall,  is  heard 
outside : 

"A!   lorde,  what  the  wedir  is  colde! 
The  fellest  freese  that  euere   I  felyd, 
I  pray  God  helpe  tham  that  is  olde, 
And   namely  tham  that  is  unwelde. 

A  sudden  light  shines  on  Joseph's  face.  Filled  with  astonishment 
he  enters  the  stable  and  gazes  bewilderingly  at  the  Babe.  '*0 
Marie!"  he  asks,  "what  suete  thyng  is  that  on  thy  kne?"  Mary 
explains  to  him  the  birth  of  the  Infant  and  assures  him  that  it  is 
her  "sone,  the  soth  to  saye,  that  is  so  gud."  Joseph  is  beside  him- 
self with  joy  that  he  has  seen  the  Saviour,  long  the  wish  of  his  soul. 
He  adores  Him,  and  joyfully  prepares  the  manager,  regretfully 
sighing  that  he  has  no  softer  bed  on  which  to  lay  the  *'blissid 
floure." 

No  one  can  doubt  the  effect  that  this  scene — so  perfectly  re- 
flecting in  an  idealizing  light  the  experiences  of  daily  life — must 
have  produced  on  the  receptive  mediaeval  spectator.  His  mind  and 
heart  were  open  to  the  impression.  It  was  his  recreation  day.  He 
might,  however,  be  able  to  recall  days  that  were  not  unlike  St. 
Joseph's  Christmas  Eve.  And  in  the  next  scene  how  he  must  have 
understood  and  enjoyed  the  life-like  realism  of  the  shepherds  des- 
crying the  Star,  and  their  effort  to  reproduce  with  their  cracked 
voices  the  Angel's  song!  But  there  was  seriousness  back  of  this 
fun.  The  shepherds  worship  the  Babe  and  give  Him  what  gifts 
they  have.  "A  baren  broche  by  a  belle  of  tynne  at  youre  bosome 
to  be,"  is  the  first  shepherd's  gift.  The  second  presents  two  cobb- 
nuts  on  a  ribbon.  A  horn  spoon  that  will  harbor  forty  peas  is  all 
that  the  third  shepherd  has  to  bestow.  The  whole  scene,  says  Ward, 
furnishes  an  innocent  idyl. 

The  two  following  plays  that  deal  with  the  coming  and  adora- 
tion of  the  Kings  appealed  less  to  the  bulk  of  the  audience.  Herod's 
apostrophes  of  himself,  though  the  author  breaks  away  to  some 
extent  from  the  traditional  manner  of  presenting  royalty,  the  ful- 
some praises  that  the  courtiers  lavish  on  the  tyrant,  are  still  exces- 
sive. The  playwright's  aim  in  this  presentation  was  obviously  to 
provoke  laughter  and  ridicule  as  well  as  to  heighten  the  contrast 
between  the  heathen  despot  and  the  Wise  Kings. 


The  brutal  savagery  of  Herod  is  well  brought  out  in  the  next 
play,  'The  Flight  into  Egypt ;"  and  especially  is  this  wanton  cruelty 
shown  in  the  play  that  follows,  ''The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents." 
The  hunting  down  of  the  Divine  Child  and  the  horror  of  the  slaugh- 
ter prepare  for  the  quiet  scene  which  represents  Christ  among  the 
Doctors.  The  anxiety  of  Joseph  and  Mary  in  fleeing  with  the 
Babe  to  inhospitable  Egypt  is  here  reproduced  in  the  three  days* 
loss.  Joseph,  it  is  quite  noticeable,  seemed  to  be  more  solicitous  for 
the  safety  of  the  Infant  than  he  is  on  this  occasion,  on  the  other 
hand,  Mary  is  far  more  anxious  about  her  Son  than  when  she  bore 
him  in  the  Flight.  Joseph  is  here  the  comforter  of  his  spouse  as 
he  had  been  on  the  way  to  Bethlehem,  but  in  the  Exile,  Mary  tries 
to  allay  his  fears.  She  was  wholly  indifferent  to  circumstances  as 
long  as  she  bore  her  Son  in  her  womb  or  in  her  arms,  but  now  that 
He  is  no  longer  beside  her,  she  is  inconsolable  at  the  loss.  This 
trait  of  motherly  affection  that  the  playwright  suggests  in  this 
scene  is  an  additional  instance  which  goes  to  show  the  originality 
of  his  treatment  and  his  closeness  to  nature.  Another  realistic 
touch  is  given  the  picture  at  the  Gate  of  the  Temple.  Joseph  and 
Mary  are  amicably  vying  about  taking  Jesus  from  among  the 
Doctors.  This  incident  Ten  Brink  quotes  as  an  example  of  "excel- 
lent characterization."  "In  the  play  of  Jesus  in  the  Temple,  the 
shyness  of  Joseph,  and  uneducated  peasant,  in  appearing  before 
learned  persons,  and  the  desire  to  let  his  more  educated  wife  speak 
instead  of  himself  is  taken  from  real  life,  as  is  also,  in  a  previous 
passage,  the  comparative  placidity  of  the  foster-father  in  contrast 
with  the  anxiety  of  the  mother  about  their  lost  son" : 
Maria:      A!  dere  Joseph,  als  we  haue  eele. 

Go  furthe  and  fette  youre  son  and  myne. 
This  day  is  gone  nere  ilke  a  dele. 
And  we  have  nede  for  to  gang  hyne. 
Joseph:     With  men  of  myght  can  I  not  raell. 
Than  all  my  trauayle  mon  I  tyne 
I  can  noyt  with  them,  this  wate  thou  wele^ 
They  are  so  gay  in  furres  fyne. 
Maria :      To  tham  youre  herand  for  to  say 

Suthly  ye  thar  noght  drede  no  dele, 
They  will  take  rewards  to  you  all  way, 
Because  of  elde;  this  watte  ye  wele. 
Joseph:     When  I  come  thare  what  schall  I  saye? 
I  wate  neuere,  als  have  I  cele. 
Sertis,  Marie,  thou  will  haue  me  gchamed  for  ay, 
For  I  can  nowthir  croke  nor  knele. 


85 

Maria:      Go  wg  togedir,  I  had  it  beste. 

Unto  yone  worthy  wysse  in  wede. 
And  yf  I  see,  als  haue  I  reste 
That  ye  will  noght,  than  bus  me  nede. 
Joseph:     Gange  on  Marie,  and  telle  thy  tale  firste, 
Thy  sone  to  the  will  take  good  heede; 
Wende  fourth,  Marie,  and  do  thy  beste, 
I  come  be-hynde  as  God  me  spede. 

The  next  play  brings  the  cycle  to  the  public  life  of  Jesus.  Follow- 
ing closely  on  the  Baptism  by  John  that  had  the  effect  of  destroying 
"the  dragons  poure  ilk  a  dele,"  comes  the  play  of  the  "Temptation 
of  Jesus"  which  gives  the  playwright  an  opportunity  for  another 
exhibition  of  Lucifer's  management  of  an  argument.  Diabolus  in- 
troduces himself  with  a  show  of  great  excitement;  and  as  it  is 
fairly  a  type  of  his  manner  I  shall  give  in  part  his  words : 

Make  rome  by-lyve,  and  let  me  gang, 

Who  makis  here  al  this  thrang? 

High  you  hense !  high  myght  you  hang 
right  with  a  roppe! 
He  goes  on  to  explain  the  news  that  has  reached  him  of  a  Re- 
deemer on  earth  who  will  deprive  him  of  his  absolute  sovereignty 
over  men.  He  does  not  know  fully  the  nature  of  the  Redeemer, 
but  he  is  confident  of  his  success  to  tempt  and  injure  Him.  He 
goes  directly  to  Jesus  in  the  wilderness  and  apologizes  to  him  that 
he  has  no  bread  to  present  him  with — seeing  the  Saviour's  weakness 
from  the  want  of  food. 

For  thou  hast  fasted  longe,  I  wene, 

I  wolde  now  som  mete  were  sene 

For  olde  aequeyntaunee  us  by-twene, 
Thy-selue   wote    howe. 

Thar  sail  noman  witte  what  I  mene 
but  I  and  thou. 
Jesus  repells  the  tempter  in  this  and  in  the  two  other  temptations 
by  a  paraphrase  of  His  answer  in  the  Gospel.  The  majesty  of  the 
Saviour  is  well  brought  out  in  this  scene  in  contrast  to  the  character- 
less duplicity  of  the  fiend.  The  dignity  and  calm  that  shines  on  the 
countenance  of  Jesus  is  the  first  characteristic  which  the  comforting 
angel  observes.  The  playwright  had  the  moral  in  view  from  the  be- 
ginning, as  Jesus  explains  toward  the  close  of  the  play.  He  gives 
as  the  motive  of  this  serenity  his  wish  to  be  a  "myrroure"  for  men 
in  overcoming  Satan. 

The  scenes  representing  the  Hidden  Life  of  Jesus  that  had 
grown  about  the  feast  of  the  Nativity  md  fQrme4  a  cycle  in  them^ 


86 

selves,  cause  a  sort  of  delay  in  the  progress  of  the  fundamental  idea 
of  struggle  between  the  powers  of  good  and  evil — the  action  so 
marked  in  the  York  series,  viewed  as  a  whole  into  which  the  Christ- 
mas cycle  of  scenes  had  been  incorporated.  And  yet  in  such  scenes 
as  the  Trouble  of  St.  Joseph,  the  hardships  on  the  way  to  Bethlehem 
the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  the  Danger  of  the  Flight  and  the 
sorrow  of  the  Three  Days'  Loss  there  is  an  enlivening  admixture 
of  sadness  and  joy,  of  failure  and  success  which  is  analogous  to 
the  underlying  conflict  between  the  two  great  combatants  whose 
hostilities  in  varying  intensity  are  waging  from  the  beginning.  In 
the  preceding  play  a  new  impetus  is  given  to  the  old  warfare.  Satan 
is  represented  as  being  particularly  displeased  at  the  baptism  of 
Jesus,  because  as  the  playwright  notices,  the  "certayne''  effects  of 
Christ's  Baptism  will  be  to  destroy,  in  great  part,  the  power  of  the 
Evil  One. 

Jesus: —       John  for  manys  prophyte,  wit  thou  wele, 

Take  I  this  baptyme,  certaynely, 

The  dragons  poure  ilke  a  dele 

Thurught  my  baptyne  destroyed  hause  I; 
This  is  certayne; 

And  saued  mankynde,  saule  and  body, 
Fro  endless  payne. 

John  has  scarcely  had  time  briefly  to  thank  Jesus — his  "souereyne 
leche"  when  the  play  is  drawn  away  and  Diabolus  is  wheeled  before 
the  audience  in  the  pageant  of  the  Temptation.  Diabolus  ingratiates 
himself  in  the  words  I  have  given  above  and  proceeds  in  a  more 
serious  accent  to  explain  his  mission  into  the  wilderness : 

And  nowe  men  spakis  of  a  swayne, 

How  he  sehall  come  and  suffre  payne. 

And  with  his  dede  to  blisse  agayne, 

Thei  (all  that  have  been  born)  shulde  be  bought; 
But  certis  this  is  but  a  trayne, 
I  trowe  it  noyt. 
Jesus  seems  conscious  also  that  the  strife  has  been  renewed.     At 
the  end  of  the  play,  after  blessing  those  who  will  "stiflfely  stande 
agaynste  the  fende,"  he  says,  "I  knawe  my  tyme  is  fast  command — 
now  will  I  wende."     From  this  point  the  interest  in  the  action  in- 
creases.    It  centres  exclusively  in  the  person  of  Jesus.     Nothing  is 
omitted  that  would  lend  additional  graciousness  and  dignity  to  his 
role.     In  the  plays  immediately  following  the  Temptation,  Jesus  is 
triumphant.     They  are,  however,  his  last  triumphs.     In  the  Trans- 
figuration scene  the  saddening  motives  that  called  it  forth  reveal 


87 

the  character  of  Jeisus  and  stand  in  contrast  with  the  moment  of 
bliss  vouchsafed  the  Apostles.  Our  Saviour's  endearing  personaUty 
is  again  in  contrast  In  the  next  play  which  contains  two  scenes,  the 
Woman  taken  in  Adultery  and  the  Raising  of  Lazarus.  The  Scribes, 
the  lawyers  on  the  case,  are  horrified  at  the  deed  committed  (nemyn 
it  noght,  for  schame),  but  Jesus  is  silent  and  listens  to  her  con- 
demnation. Unhappily  the  leaf  of  the  manuscript  that  contained 
the  temptation  and  His  answer  is  torn  away.  The  reply  of  Jesus 
must,  we  may  presume,  have  been  a  characteristic  paraphrase  of 
His  words  in  St.  John  (VHI,  1-12),  somewhat  as  they  read  in  the 
corresponding  Coventry  play.  This  scene  is  only  half  the  play,  the 
prelude  in  some  sort  to  the  Raising  of  Lazarus.  The  Apostles  were 
still  thanking  Jesus  for  his  pity  on  the  guilty  woman  when  the 
messenger  from  Bethany  arrived.  There  is  a  ring  of  genuine  sorrow 
in  the  words  of  Mary  and  Martha,  but,  as  in  the  early  part  of  the 
play,  a  leaf  is  missing  at  the  point  of  chief  interest,  where  Jesus 
gently  chides  Martha  for  her  inconsolable  grief.  Martha's  answer 
and  much  more  is  lost.  Grief  gives  way  to  gladness  as  Lazarus 
walks  forth  from  the  tomb,  but  the  period  of  rejoicing  is  brief  for 
Jesus  announces  His  immediate  departure  for  Jerusalem. 

In  the  triumphal  entry  into  the  Holy  City  there  is  remarkable 
variety.  The  pathetic  introduction  to  this  long  scene  in  which  Jesus 
intimates  to  his  Apostles  his  approaching  end,  is  relieved  by  the 
light  episode  showing  Peter  and  Philip  bargaining  with  the  keeper 
of  the  ass ;  and,  as  Ward  notices,  the  effect  of  a  triumphant  ride  is 
further  enhanced  by  the  introduction  of  the  blind  man  and  the  lame 
man,  following,  as  suppliants  in  the  track  of  the  Saviour's  progress. 
The  play  reaches  its  most  effective  scene  at  the  close  where  a  chorus 
of  eight  Burgesses  welcomes  and  worships  the  King  of  the  Jews. 
The  eighth  soloist  sings, 

"Hayll!   domysman  dredful,  that  all  schall  deme  (judge) 
Hayll!  quyk  and  dede  that  all  schall  lowte   (praise) 
Hayll!  whom  worsehippe  moste  will  seme, 
Hayll!  whom  all  thynge  schall  drede  and  dowte. 

We  welcome  the. 
Hayll!  and  welcome  of  all  aboute 

To  our  cete." 

Following  immediately  this  exhibition  of  welcome  and  allegiance 
comes  the  play  of  the  Conspirators  which  is  opened  by  Pilate's 
boastful  proclamation  of  his  learning,  dignity  and  undisputed  power. 
He  shows  throughout  the  play,  however,  a  degree  of  impartiality 


88 

Sind  love  of  truth,  and  openly  expresses  his  determination  to  give 
justice  to  Jesus.  It  is  true  he  gives  to  Judas  the  thirty  silver  pence, 
but  his  purpose  in  so  doing  is  not  malicious.  The  priest  and  soldiers 
on  the  contrary,  are  quite  unreasonable  in  their  efforts  to  make  a 
case  against  Jesus,  though  all  show  a  strong  contempt  for  Judas — 
Annas  curses  Him  and  Pilate's  doorkeeper  calls  Him  to  his  face  a 
"bittlbrowed  bribour."  The  playwright  manages  the  conspiracy 
with  skill  and  interest,  happily  relieving  the  undramatic  allegations 
before  Pilate  of  their  legal  dryness  by  the  more  entertaining  dia- 
logue between  the  janitor  and  Judas.  The  Arrest  of  Jesus  does  not 
follow  immediately.  Over  against  the  play  of  the  envious 
conspirators  stands  the  scene  in  the  upper  room.  This  peaceful 
spectacle  and  the  gentle  spirits  of  Our  Lord  and  the  Apostles 
gain  much  when  viewed  in  contrast  with  the  preceding  scene 
and  with  the  plays  that  follow.  It  is  regrettable  that  this  man- 
uscript also  has  been  "perused  and  otherwise  amended"  to  the 
extent  that  the  page  (about  sixty-five  lines)  which  dealt  with 
the  institution  of  the  Holy  Eucharist  is  torn  away.  In  this 
play  of  the  Last  Supper  the  introduction  of  James'  unseasonable 
question  on  the  matter  of  priority  among  the  Apostles  wh^n 
Jesus  is  gone,  coming  just  after  the  Master  has  washed  the 
disciples'  feet  is  one  of  those  occasional  instances  that  go  to  show 
the  effort  of  the  playwright  to  overcome  a  difficulty  inherent  in 
his  theme.t  "In  the  Mysteries  not  only  were  the  subject  and 
idea  unalterable,  but  the  way  in   which   the  subject  and   idea 


*  A  passage  spoken  by  Saint  John  in  honor  of  the  Seven  Sacraments 
in  the  Chester  cycle  is  similarly  crossed  through  and  marked  by  a  later 
hand  as  "correctyd  and  not  played'*  (cf.  Ward,  Hist.  Dram.  Lit.  p.  72). 
The  same  is  done  in  the  XIX  Towneley  cyclic  play  where  the  passage  is 
crossed  out  with  red  ink  and  the  number  of  sacraments  carefully  erased. 
Again  in  the  XXIV  pageant  of  the  same  series  lines  supporting  the  doctrine 
of  transubstantion  spoken  bv  Christ  from  the  Cross  are  likewise  cancelled. 
(cf.  Collier,  Annals  of  the  Stage  Vol.  2,  pp.   197-198.) 

t  There  is  throughout  evidence  of  this  effort  on  the  part  of  the  play- 
wright to  present  a  motive  as  palpable  for  the  action.  In  the  Chester  XIII., 
for  instance,  the  Merchant  who  protests  against  the  action  of  Jesus  in 
the  Temple, 

'What  frecke  is  this  that  makes  fare, 
And  casteth  downe  all  our  ware? 
Come  no  man  hither  full  of  yare. 
That  did  us  such  anoye.' 
In   XVI.,   this   same  'Primuz   Mercator'   turns   out   to   be   the   prosecutor    of 
Jesus  before  Caiphas,  telling  the  Saviour's  prophecy  concerning  the  destruc- 
tion  and   rebuilding   of  the   Temple   in   three   days.     Again   Judas   is   angry 
at  the  reprimand  given  by  Jesus  on  account  of  the  criticism  which  the  traitor 
made  of  Magdalen's  action  in  Simon's  house,     This  was  Chester,  XIV.     In 


89 

affected  each  other  was  equally  unchangeable."  *  This  state- 
ment needs  qualification  in  many  instances.  Apart  from  the 
introduction  of  novel  matter  the  transference  of  a  familiar 
incident  from  its  historical  location  to  its  dramatic  position 
frequently  occurs  in  the  Cycles  and  contributes  much  to  alter 
the  relation  in  which  the  subject  and  idea  affected  each  other. 
In  the  next  play  there  is  a  like  intimation  of  an  effort  at  dramatic 
effect.  After  the  traitor's  kiss  a  brilliant  light  blazes  forth  from 
the  face  of  Jesus  which  stuns  the  soldiers.  There  are  in  the 
subsequent  scenes  many  artfully  arranged  incidents  of  a  non- 
biblical  character  that  afford  moments  of  relief  in  the  long  and 
realistic  presentation  of  the  sad  events  of  the  Passion.  To 
incidents  of  this  nature  the  dramatist  is  indebted  for  the  indi- 
viduality they  give  his  chief  persons,  whether  viewed  singly  or 
in  the  heightened  contrast  of  actions; — in  either  case  the  inter- 
polated elements  relax  the  bond  of  interest  and  prevent  a  painful 
tension.  In  the  nine  plays  immediately  antecedent  to  the  Cruci- 
fixion scenes,  interims  of  rest  and  suspension  in  the  upward 
action  are  managed  with  discrimination  and  contribute  in  many 
ways  to  effectiveness  of  treatment.  The  pageant  of  the  Conspir- 
ators for  instance,  following  next  in  order  the  triumphal  Entry 
is  much  improved  dramatically  by  the  playwright  who  presents 
both  actions  as  taking  place  concurrently.  The  plotting  against 
the  life  of  Jesus  and  His  Betrayal  are  shown  to  the  audience 
as  silently  operating  at  the  very  time  that  Hosannas  of  welcome 
were  cheered  through  the  city. 

Following  the  Agony  in  the  Garden  ^nd  the  taking  of 
Jesus  comes  the  play  of  the  trial — before  Caiaphas.  But  instead 
of  proceeding  directly  with  the  examination  the  playwright 
gives  a  long  description  of  what  was  taking  place  in  the  palace 
of  the  high  priest  while  Jesus  was  in  agony  on  Mount  Olivet. 
The  amusing  scene  occupied  in  elaborate  preparations  **to  lift" 
Caiaphas  into  bed  after  he  had  slaked  his  thirst  with  delicious 
wine  that  would  *'make  you  to  wynke,"  is  an  effective  interlude. 
It  brings  out  to  the  point  of  utmost  contrast  the  character  of 
Jesus  and  his  accusers,  and  relieves  the  audience  of  the  distress- 
ing events  during  the  long  play  of  the  Agony,  and  refreshes  the 

*  Ten  Brink,  English  Literature,  Vol.  1,  p.  306. 

the  next  pageant,  The  Betrayal,  the  waste  of  the  ointment  is  the  only 
motive  that  urges  the  vindictive  Judas  to  sell  his  Master.  The  whole  tenor 
of  his  conduct  reflects  the  wouii4  th^  Saviour's  censure  caused. 


90 

mind  for  the  Trial-scene  and  inhuman  conduct  of  the  soldiers 
toward  their  Victim. 

For  the  same  purpose  of  affording  ease  and  variety  and  at 
the  same  time  to  bind  into  a  closer  unit  the  several  scenes,  the 
playwright  adapts  a  curious  incident  from  the  Gospel  of  Nico- 
demus,  the  dream  of  Pilate's  wife.*  The  audience  knows  from 
the  closing  scene  of  the  trial  before  Caiaphas  that  Jesus  is  to 
be  judged  by  Pilate.  Caiaphas  sends  a  messenger  to  '*tell 
Pilate  our  compliments,  and  that  this  lad  must  be  slain  to-day 
because  it  is  Sabbath  to-morrow."  At  the  beginning  of  the 
next  play  the  Dream  is  enacted.  It  is  introduced  with  the 
presentation  of  a  typical  evening  at  Court,  differing  materially 
in  nothing  from  what  took  place  at  the  high  priest*s  house  the 
night  before,  nor  from  the  closing  of  the  present  day  at  Herod's 
quarters.  It  is  Satan  himself  that  whispers  the  dream  into 
Percula's  ear,  the  purport  of  which  is  that  if  the  ''gentilman 
Jesu"  is  unjustly  doomed  she  and  Pilate  will  be  stripped  of  all 
their  power  and  riches.  The  playwright  artfully  keeps  this 
news  from  the  Governor  till  the  moment  at  which  such  an 
account  was  least  desirable.  Pilate  had  a  mind  to  befriend  Annas 
and  Caiaphas  whose  sheer  flattery  he  had  just  cordially  accepted, 
when  his  son  announced  to  him  in  presence  of  the  "Bisshoppis" 
the  threats  of  the  dream. 

The  long  presentation  of  the  Passion  derives  human  interest 
from  the  variety  with  which  the  poet  intersperses  the  scenes. 
He  interrupts  the  arguments  at  the  trials  and  the  brutal  sports 
of  the  soldiers  by  distracting  events  of  a  serious  nature,  as  well 
as  by  incidents  of  a  light  and  comic  character.  The  privileged 
Beadle  supplied  much  of  these  diversifying  elements.  He  was 
capable  of  saying  and  doing  anything.  His  language  on  an 
occasion  of  unseasonable  knocking  at  the  entrance  gate  (though 
it  happens  to  be  the  High  Priests  that  are  there)  needs  not  be 
reproduced  here;  yet  it  is  the  same  Beadle  that  alone  publicly 
worships  Jesus  amid  the  scoffs  of  the  priests  and  soldiers.  The 
parts  of  the  warden,  the  several  royal  supper-scenes,  Percula's 
Dream,  her  undutiful  son,  the  bowing  of  the  banners,  Barabbas' 
thanks,  the  Squire  cheated  of  his  title-deeds  to  Mount  Calvary 
— these  and  such  like  scenes  growing  out  of  the  main  action, 


*  Gospel    of    Nicodemus     (Gesta    Pilati).    I.     II.    "Uber    Quellen    und 
Sprache  der  York  Plays,  pp.  25-26  Von  Paul  Kamann,  Halle  1887, 


91 

not  only  afforded  the  audience  needful  mental  rest,  but  were 
helpful  also  to  the  playwright's  efforts  in  emphasizing  situations 
and  persons. 

In  the  three  pageants  that  have  to  do  with  the  Crucifixion 
the  author^s  design  to  reproduce  realities  literally  is  very  notice- 
able. Nowhere  else  does  he  play  on  the  feelings  of  his  audience 
to  such  an  extent,  and  consequently  at  no  time  so  much  as  in 
the  present  instant,  has  it  been  necessary  to  put  ourselves  in 
the  attitude  of  the  playwright  toward  his  theme.  Here,  if 
anywhere,  nothing  should  come  between  us  and  the  author.  To 
overlook  his  intensely  religious  purpose  and  abstract  ourselves 
from  his  milieu,  would,  of  course,  mean  to  miss  not  only  the 
primary  motive  of  the  plays  but  the  very  reason  of  their  exist- 
ence. Most  unquestionably  the  playwright's  conception  and 
execution  of  these  climacteric  scenes  are  barbaric  in  the  extreme 
judged  by  the  most  lenient  standard  of  what  is  now  aesthetically 
proper.  It  is  sufficiently  deplored  that  the  Mediaeval  dramatist's 
description  of  the  Sacred  Passion  and  Death  of  our  Redeemer 
is  inexpressibly  painful  to  our  time — so  no  doubt,  would  be  the 
actual  tragedy  itself  had  we  witnessed  it  with  all  its  wanton 
concomitant  brutalities  which  the  Evangelists  permit  to  be 
inferred.  This,  however,  is  not  the  question.  It  needs  no  point- 
ing out  that  we  should  be  unwarranted  in  dissociating  the 
dramatist  from  the  listener  and  neither  from  his  time  and  place. 
Plays  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  were  not  written 
for  audiences  of  the  twentieth.  This  is  surely  a  commonplace 
remark,  yet  its  full  meaning  is  not  always  borne  in  mind.  We 
have  no  reason  to  suspect  that  the  old  playwright  was  ignorant 
of  his  public  nor  that  it  was  his  endeavor  to  secure  its  good 
will.  The  truth  is  rather  that  we  have  abundant  evidence  in 
proof  of  his  intimate  knowledge  of  his  audience.  The  instinct 
to  please  is  in  the  soul  of  every  dramatist  from  Shakespeare 
down. 

The  early  Gothic  drama  sought  its  effects  and  interest  in 
fidelity  to  the  reality.  The  author  had  no  idea  of  the  fact  that 
the  business  of  art  was  to  correct  and  improve  nature.  His 
modification  of  the  original  was  usually  confined  to  the  task 
of  extending  or  contracting  the  material,  a  process  of  physical 
arrangement  largely  and  not  a  recasting  of  the  subject  matter, 
or  a  heightening  of  its  dramatic  quality  by  giving  the  whole  a 


92 

personal  interpretation  which  would  reflect  the  tone  and  color 
of  his  mind.  This  was  to  be  the  work  of  later  dramatists.  With 
the  older  playwrights,  however,  unmistakable  intimations  of 
mental  assimilation  can  be  found ;  the  tendency  to  localize  and 
modernize,  to  invent,  emphasize  and  make  attractive  was  going 
on  from  the  beginning.  This  is  strikingly  illustrated  in  the 
plays  which  bring  the  York  Cycle  to  its  climax. 

If  we  remember  that  the  playwright's  great  law  was  to 
reproduce  by  imitation  as  far  as  he  could  the  impression  of  what 
took  place  in  the  Garden,  Judgment  Halls  and  on  Calvary,  it 
will  pass  unquestioned  that  he  has  succeeded  in  presenting  the 
terrible  reality  with  wonderful  truth.  I  doubt  that  it  would 
be  difficult  to  exaggerate  what  may  be  reasonably  inferred  from 
the  Evangelists'  unimpassioned  narrative  of  the  sufferings  and 
death  of  Christ.  To  imply  that  the  least  irreverance  was  dreamt 
of  in  the  long  display  of  professionalism  which  the  Guild  of 
Pinners,  for  instance,  so  strikingly  manifests  in  the  Mediaeval 
crucifixion-scene,  would  be  to  mistake  the  whole  spirit  of  the 
Liturgical  and  Cyclic  drama.  The  realistic  manual  job  that  is 
detailed,  the  wrangling  among  the  executioners  for  upward  of 
a  hundred  lines  about  the  cross,  hammers,  nails,  brads,  ropes 
and  ladders,  the  poignant  grief  within  Mary's  heart  at  such  a 
woeful  spectacle,  the  sorrow  of  John  and  the  Holy  Women,  the 
abusive  lictors  as  they  buffet  their  Victim,  the  cruel  delight 
that  the  enemies  of  Jesus  take  in  casting  looks  of  scorn  at  Him 
— ^are  all  drawn  out  with  a  naturalness  that  is  scarcely  surpassed 
by  the  passion  players  of  Ober-Ammergau.  The  consistency 
with  which  each  role  is  sustained  throughout  the  passion  scenes 
cannot  but  be  commended,  however  much  one  may  charge  the 
playwright's  conception  of  his  caste. 

Hardly  had  the  bloody  spectacle  which  the  Butchers'  pageant 
represented  passed  from  the  people's  eyes  when  a  scene  of 
relief  was  wheeled  in  its  place.  It  showed  the  defeated,  derided 
and  disjointed  Christ  of  a  moment  ago  now  perfectly  whole  and 
conquering.  Harrowing  Hell.  The  Redeemer  takes  with  Him 
His  faithful  followers,  those  who  stood  by  his  cause  against  the 
enemy,  and  confides  them  to  His  commander-in-chief,  Michael. 

"Adame  and  my  frendes  in  feeie. 
Fro  all  youre  fooes  come  forth  with  me 
Ye  schall  be  sette  in  solas  seere, 
Wher  ^re  schall  neure  of  sorowes  see, 


9S 

And  Mighall,  myn  aungell  clere, 
Ressayue  thes  saules  -all  unto  the, 
And  lede  thame  als  I  schall  the  leve 
To  Paradise  with  plays  and  plente." 

The  loss  of  Limbo  was  a  cause  of  much  excitement  in  the  under- 
world ;  but  the  real  tragic  incident  took  place  only  when  Michael 
shortened  Satan's  chain  and  pinned  him  faster  within  his  narrow 
dominion. 

The  resurrection  scene  follows  the  Harrowing  of  Hell  and 
joy  is  brought  to  Christ's  followers  on  this  upper  world  and 
fear  to  His  enemies.  Here  strong  effects  are  attached  by  the 
playwright's  introduction  of  his  old  device  of  abrupt  contrast. 
The  feeling  of  repose  and  satisfaction  that  Pilate  and  the 
Priests  experience  is  well  worked  up  and  prepares  for  the  effect 
which  the  writer  meant  that  the  Centurion's  news  would  cause. 
And  equally  well-wrought  is  the  second  part  of  this  play,  which 
is  no  other  than  the  old  Latin  liturgical  office  lost  in  the  vernacu- 
lar cycle.  The  Three  Maries  come  on  the  stage,  inconsolable  over 
the  loss  of  Jesus.  Their  grief  heightens  as  they  advance  on  the 
way  of  the  Cross  to  the  Tomb  to  anoint  Jesus,  and  is  paralleled 
only  by  their  surprise  and  joy  later.  The  play  of  the  Resurrec- 
tion, only  four  hundred  and  fifty  lines  in  all,  exhibits  in  its 
construction  a  noticeable  growth  in  dramatic  skill.  There  is  not 
much  invention  manifested,  but  the  selection  of  material  is 
judicious.  Pilate,  it  is  clearly  intimated  in  the  opening  scene 
of  the  play,  despite  his  apparent  calm  has  scruples  about  the 
legality  of  the  condemnation  of  Jesus  and  fears  an  uprising 
among  the  Jews.  But  this  latter  dread  is  of  secondary  import- 
ance in  his  mind,  though  it  is  the  only  thought  that  disturbs  Sirs 
Caiaphas  and  Annas,  who  are  afraid  that  the  populace  will  come 
to  think  that  the  Sabbath-Breaker  is  somebody.  The  respectful 
and  bold  confession  Of  the  Centurion  is  opposed  to  the  vacil- 
lating explanations  of  the  Governor  and  High  Priests.  Soldiers 
are  sent  to  guard  the  monument,  and  the  interlude  of  the  three 
Maries  appropriately  fills  the  time  between  the  commission  of 
the  guard  and  its  experience  at  the  Tomb.  The  return  of  the 
guards  to  the  Court  and  their  frank  statement  of  the  triumph 
of  Jesus  utterly  defeats  His  enemies.  It  may  seem  regrettable 
that  the  very  knight  who  prevailed  on  his  comrades  at  the 
Sepulchre  to  tell  the  facts  of  the  Resurrection,  even  at  the 
expense  of  life,  should  later  be  the  spokesman  for  his  fellows 


94 

in  accepting  the  thousand-pound  bribe.  Had  we,  however,  heard 
the  derisive  laugh  that  followed  the  ridiculous  suggestion  of 
Annas  to  Pilate,  to  have  the  soldiers  tell  wherever  they  went  that 
20,000  men  took  the  body  from  the  Tomb  and  that  they  them- 
selves were  nearly  slain,  we  could  better  appreciate  the  comic 
touch  and  ironic  humor  in  the  action  of  the  Primus  Miles.  It 
was  the  last  time  the  conspirators  were  to  appear  and  the  play- 
wright would  have  their  defeat  and  exit  emphasized  by  ''bring- 
ing down  the  house"  on  the  ridiculous  measures  that  the 
councillors  of  Pilate  advise  in  order  to  offset  the  fact  of  the 
Resurrection. 

The  enemies  of  Christ  vanquished  in  this  way,  the  closing 
plays  treat  of  the  glorious  life  of  Christ,  the  Triumph  of  His 
mother  and  His  followers.  The  Gospel  account  of  the  Risen 
Life  being  extremely  meagre  the  playwright  had  recourse  to  the 
more  amenable  material  in  the  apocryphal  legends.*  Oral  and 
written  notices  of  this  period  of  the  Life  of  Christ  were  circulated 
widely  and  they  afforded  excellent  subject-matter  for  dramatiz- 
ation. Popular  though  they  were,  they  were  not  so  familiar 
as  the  writings  of  the  Evangelists  and  consequently  a  greater 
freedom  might  be  exercised  in  the  formation  of  dramatic  parts 
from  them.  The  play  showing  the  grief  of  Magdalen  is  treated 
with  more  detail  than  in  the  corresponding  Liturgical  drama. 
The  gardener  here  does  his  part  well  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  Thomas,  whose  incredulity  and  loneliness  afford  the 
playwright  room  for  effective  suspense  and  contrast.  The 
Marian  plays  are  mainly  spectacular.  It  is  easy  enough  to 
picture  to  one's  self  the  effect  which  Mary's  Death  created. 
Music  and  angelic  songs  invite  her  to  the  Paradise  of  her  Son. 
Her  Assumption  and  Coronation  is  followed  by  the  Judgment 
Day  which  puts  an  end  to  the  strife  between  the  Righteous  and 
the  Wicked  and  brings  back  the  whole  action  of  the  cycle,  says 
Ward,  "into  the  hollow  of  the  hand  of  God." 

Such  in  outline  was  the  York  Cyclic  drama.  It  contained  a 
fuller  development  of  the  dramatic  idea — in  so  far  at  least,  as 
accuracy  of  definition  and  detail  in  the  presentation  contributed 
to  this  growth — than  was  found  in  the  liturgical  plays.  It 
may  hardly  be  said  that  our  knowledge  of  the  cycle  caste  is 
more  complete  because  more  individualizing  traits  are  given  us 


*  Paul  Kamann  "Uber  Quellen  und  Sprache  der  York  Plays,"  pp.  3  flf. 


95 

to  fill  out  the  personalities;  rather,  we  come  to  know  the  char- 
acters better  in  this  than  in  the  earlier  species  by  reason  largely 
of  the  additional  items  which  help  us  in  forming  a  more  accurate 
estimate  of  the  summed  qualities  of  the  persons.  It  would  be 
contrary  to  fact,  however,  to  deny  a  notable  power  of  suggestion 
in  many  of  the  details  chosen  by  the  York  playwright.  His 
effective  contrasts  within  the  scenes  have  been  pointed  out. 
Then,  the  juxtaposition  of  play  with  play  and  the  feeling  of 
struggle  underlying  and  informing  the  several  plays  unified  the 
action  of  the  whole  cycle.  This  brought  the  persons  more  in 
relief.  The  two  functional  ideas  of  personality  and  responsibility 
that  dominated  all  mediaeval  life,  exercised  an  influence  scarcely 
less  perceptible  and  telling  in  the  Cyclic  than  in  the  Liturgical 
drama.  The  presence  of  these  *'two  senses"  in  the  auditors 
secured  for  the  playwright  a  receptive  hearing  which  supplied 
what  was  wanting  in  the  interest  and  outlining  of  the  caste. 
It  furnished  a  principle  or  bond  of  unity  which  helped  to  a 
more  complete  assimilation  of  the  varied  action,  and  to  a  deeper 
realization  of  the  cycle  as  a  whole.  While  his  eyes  beheld  the 
movement  and  his  ears  received  the  actor's  words,  the  mind  and 
soul  of  the  auditor  followed,  as  it  were,  the  continuous  develop- 
ment and  ever  changing  succession  of  emotions  and  conceptions 
out  of  which  the  words  and  actions  sprung.  The  unifying  effect 
of  the  oneness  of  mood  and  sympathy  noticeable  here  will  be 
perfected  by  the  great  Elizabethan  dramatists. 

Studied  in  view  of  this  peculiar  genius  or  spirit,  the  persons 
in  a  Cyclic  drama  acquired  a  marked  individuality  for  the 
audience.  The  playwright's  suggestion  was  worked  on  and 
elaborated  by  the  the  mental  activity  of  his  hearers  into  life-like 
pictures  of  Christ,  of  Mary  and  Joseph — of  the  entire  Biblical 
caste  and  more  particularly  of  the  non-scriptural  persons.  If 
we  follow  the  unfolding  of  the  cycle  from  the  promise  of  a 
Redeemer  at  the  expulsion  from  Eden  till  the  spectators  see  the 
Messiah  on  His  Mother's  knees  in  the  stable,  and  then  follow 
the  action  as  it  brings  out  the  character  of  Jesus  through  the 
scenes  of  His  childhood,  youth  and  public  life,  to  Calvary,  we 
shall  not  fail  to  see  the  finished  outline  the  playwright  has 
sketched.  We  shall  find  lineaments  of  the  Sacred  Persons  of  the 
Bible  underneath  the  imprints  laid  upon  them  by  the  mediaeval 
dramatists.    A  general  disposition  of  his  mind  and  soul  stripped^ 


96 

it  is  true,  of  much  of  the  heavenly  character  and  charm  which 
the  Gospels  inimitably  suggest  and  portray,  is  preserved  in  the 
Christ  of  the  Cycles.  It  was  unavoidable  that  the  celestial 
atmosphere  which  surrounds  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  Gospel 
would  vanish  before  the  untrained  vision  of  Mediaeval  play- 
goers. The  softness  of  touch,  the  poetry  and  sentiment  so 
delicately  expressed  by  the  Evangelists,  escaped  the  rough 
handling  of  the  playwright.  This  is  not  a  matter  to  be  wondered 
at.  These  were  literary  rather  than  dramatic  qualities  which 
could  scarcely  be  treated  in  a  positive  way.  They  could  only 
be  insinuated,  and  to  effect  this  would  demand  an  arrangement 
of  action,  a  cleverness  in  technique  and  a  flexibility  of  language 
quite  beyond  the  power  of  the  cyclic  poet.  The  Christ  of  the 
stage  in  being  adapted  to  new  circumstances  contracted  a  tem- 
perament and  character  corresponding  to  His  surroundings.  The 
sacred  Text,  however,  was  sufficiently  adhered  to  by  the  play- 
wright to  afford  a  warrant  that  there  would  be  m  the  dramatic 
person  no  appreciable  deviation  from  the  biblical  prototype. 
The  human  qualities  of  Christ  were  emphasized  rather  than  His 
divine  attributes.  He  came  nearer  to  the  level  of  the  people 
on  the  stage  than  when  He  walked  among  men.  This  trait  is 
most  evident  in  His  famihar  manner  with  the  Apostles  and  with 
His  friends.  When  speaking  officially,  Christ  addresses  the 
crowd  and  His  enemies  in  a  doctrinal  and  somewhat  impersonal 
tone :  yet  His  arguments  have  a  true  scholastic  point,  and  when 
among  the  Doctors  in  the  Temple  He  seems  to  take  genuine 
satisfaction  in  the  cruel  delight  of  showing  His  questioners,  on 
the  least  provocation,  the  limits  of  their  attainments. 

It  is,  however,  owing  to  the  treatment  of  qualities,  which  seem 
but  little  consequent  on  His  purely  human  conduct,  that  the  charac- 
ter of  Christ  rises  at  times  to  a  dramatic  level.  Much  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Gospel  narrative  is  felt  in  the  plays,  in  those,  for  instance, 
that  have  to  do  with  the  Trial  and  Crucifixion.  The  true  greatness 
of  the  Hero  is  seen  in  His  hours  of  suffering,  but  we  need  the 
scenes  of  His  innocent  childhood,  youth  and  manhood  to  realize 
the  height  of  the  climax.  The  cyclic  playwright  in  reproducing 
the  dramatic  points  in  the  private  life  of  our  Saviour  offers  an  in- 
sight into  the  human  heart  of  the  Hero  which,  with  all  its  limita- 
tions, reveals  with  a  certain  degree  of  fulness,  the  ideal  meek  and 
good  man  who  suffers  wrong;   and  in  the  treatment  of  the  Public 


97 

Life  he  sets  forth  the  same  ideal  character  whose  distinctive 
traits  are  deepened  by  reason  of  the  more  intense  action  and 
more  dramatic  situation. 

All  through  the  New  Testament  series  of  plays  a  two-fold  life 
of  Christ  is  definitely  marked  off.  What  He  seems  is  very  different 
from  that  which  He  really  is.  It  is  this  precisely  which  gives  the 
cyclic  play  its  intrinsic  dramatic  worth.  The  Hero's  motives  of 
action,  which  are  wholly  unknown  or  misconceived  by  His  enemies, 
are  as  evident  as  sunlight  to  the  audience.  This  oldest  stage  con- 
vention of  enlightening  the  auditor  with  a  foreknowledge  of  rea- 
sons and  events  which  are  hidden  from  the  counter-players,  was 
done  beforehand  for  the  playwright  owing  to  the  familiar  nature 
of  his  theme;  nevertheless,  as  was  noticed  elsewhere  in  speaking 
of  the  corporate  unity  of  the  cycles,  he  was  careful  frequently  to 
recall  the  illusion.  He  places  the  utmost  confidence  in  his  hearers; 
their  spiritual  preceptions  and  easy  apprehension  of  realities  are 
strikingly  in  contrast  with  the  utter  absence  of  such  faculties  among 
the  jews  and  heathens  on  the  stage. 

The  assumed  mental  superiority  over  the  unchristian  element 
among  the  players  is  noteworthy  in  this  connection.  It  was  no  diffi- 
culty for  the  mediaeval  mind  to  be  in  fullest  sympathy  with  the 
minutest  manifestation  of  the  spiritual  world.  The  inexplicable 
silences  and  mental  reservations  on  the  part  of  Christ,  and  the  in- 
termittent marvel  and  ominous  foreboding  which  so  affrighted  His 
enemies  give  rise  to  effective  situations  by  reason  of  the  clear  dis- 
cernment with  which  the  spectators  are  endowed  touching  these 
events.  The  consistent  intellectual  opposition  of  the  actor  and 
auditor  in  this  way  contributed  much  to  the  development  of  the 
characters  and  helped  to  suggest,  to  bring  out  and  emphasize  those 
latent  motives  which,  in  the  character  of  Christ  particularly,  were 
the  main-springs  of  His  acts.  The  auditors  being  fully  conscious 
of  the  secret  causes  at  work  in  the  dramatic  life  of  Christ,  built  up 
a  hero  that  was,  no  doubt,  ideal,  and  typical — so  far  as  all  heroes 
are  types — but  who  was  none  the  less  a  person  with  reason,  will 
and  perception  properly  his  own.  Such  a  concept  of  the  leading 
character,  considered  relative  to  the  action  of  the  cycle,  seems  to  be 
strictly  dramatic.  In  the  somewhat  incoherent  treatment  of  the 
material  that  resulted,  however,  in  a  tolerably  concrete  whole,  there 
were  situations  which  furnished  the  playwright  opportunities  for 
dramatic  characterization.     We  have  noticed  instances  where  he 


98 

analyzed,  collated,  transposed  and  rejected  the  text,  and  has  re- 
peatedly interpolated  personal  and  apocryphal  incidents  in  order  to 
heighten  the  dramatic  quality  of  his  matter.  All  this  bears  witness 
to  the  conscious  effort  of  the  dramatist  to  bring  into  as  just  relief  as 
he  conceived  it,  the  living  form  of  the  central  Figure  in  the  cycle. 
What  was  intuitive  and  undeveloped  in  the  Liturgical  drama  be- 
comes a  reasoned,  though  crude,  process  with  the  poets  of  the 
cycles,  and  the  character  that  was  only  most  generally  limited  in 
the  earlier  species  has  grown  into  a  dramatic  person,  with  more 
nicely  defined  human  properties  and  possessing  in  an  initial  stage 
certain  qualities  of  the  Elizabethan  hero. 

•  Something  has  already  been  said  on  the  management  of  Mary 
and  Joseph  by  the  liturgic  and  cyclic  playwright.  These  two  char- 
acters of  all  the  historical  persons  he  had  to  treat  were  most  in  the 
line  of  what  the  writer  of  the  Corpus  Christi  plays  could  do  best. 
To  set  in  a  serious  religious  background  two  such  intensely  human 
persons  as  St.  Joseph  and  the  Mother  of  Jesus  was  in  a  special  way 
according  to  the  genius  of  the  York  playwright.  By  reason  of  the 
familiar  Biblical  account  and  the  traditional  concept  of  the  auditors 
touching  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  her  husband  he  was  morally  pre- 
vented from  any  deviation  from  the  w^ell  known  prototypes.  The 
simplicity  and  dignity  of  ''Marie  modir  and  maiden  clene"  are 
throughout  the  cycle  consistently  brought  to  the  foreground.  From 
the  dramatic  point  of  view  she  is  immeasurably  beyond  the  Three 
Maries  who,  with  her  and  her  cousin  Elizabeth  are,  perhaps,  the 
only  women-characters  in  the  entire  mediaeval  drama  that  are  not 
highly  disagreeable  persons,  introduced  for  purposes  of  relief  in 
the  action  or  to  give  proof  and  point  to  the  moral  that  young  men 
should  beware  of  marrying.*  As  with  all  the  roles  in  the  early 
drama  there  is  nothing  involved  or  complicated  in  the  characters 
of  Mary  and  Joseph ;  no  technical  artifice  is  introduced  to  heighten 
the  dramatic  value  of  their  parts.  All  the  unconsciousness  of  na- 
ture is  in  their  unstudied  words  and  movements.  Mary  is  afraid 
of  the  Angel,  and  knows  not  how  to  allay  Joseph's  anxiety.     She 


*  To  appreciate  fully  the  delicate  treatment  of  the  York  playwright  of 
his  heroine  in  this  respect  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  how  the  mediaeval 
comic  writer  treated  his  women  characters.  Chaucer  in  Iiis  Envoy,  to 
husbands  at  the  end  of  the  Clark'  of  Oxenford's  Tale  delinlatea  the  mediaeval 
wife  in  his  own  inimitable  way.  This  is  Noah's  counsel  in  the  third 
Towneley  play.  "Ye  men  that  have  wifes,  whylea  they  are  young,  if  y« 
luff  your  lifes,  chastise  thare  tong." 


99 

is  afraid  of  her  Babe,  nevertheless  she  loves  Him  and  calls  Him 
the  sweetest  of  names.  Both  Joseph  and  she  hurry  with  Him  in 
the  Flight,  though  Mary  can  not  understand  the  reason  why  she 
has  to  flee.  As  illustrative  of  this  strikingly  womanly  trait,  the 
following  from  the  play  on  the  Exile  may  be  transcribed  here. 
Speaking  of  those  who  sought  the  life  of  her  Babe,  the  Mother 
says  to  Joseph: 

What  ayles  thei  at  my  bame 

Slike  harme8  hym  for  to  hate? 

Alias!  why  schulde  I  tharne 

My  sone  his  liffe  so  sweete. 

His  harte  aught  to  be  ful  sare, 

On  slike  a  foode  hym  to  to  forfare. 

That  nevir  did  ill 

Hym  for  to  spille, 

And  he  ne  wate  why. 

I  ware  full  wille  of  wane 

My  sone  and  he  shude  dye, 

And  I  haue  but  hym  allone. 

JOSEPH    ANSWERS:  — 

We!  leue  Marie,  do  way,  late  be, 
.  I  pray  the,  leue  of  thy  dynne. 

And  fande  the  furthe  faste  for  to  flee 
Away  with  hym  for  to  wynne. 
That  no  myscheue  on  hym  betyde 
Nor  none  vnhappe  in  nokyn  side, 
Be  way  nor  strete 
That  we  mon  mete 
To  slee  hym. 

MARY: 

Alias!  Joseph,  for  care! 
Why  shulde  I  for-go  hym, 
My  dere  barne  that  I  bare. 

JOSEPH  : 

That  swete  swayne  yf  thou  saue. 
Do  tyte,  pakke  same  oure  gere, 
'  And  such  small  harness  as  we  haue. 

MARY : 

A!  leue  Joseph,  I  may  not  here. 

JOSEPH : 

Bere  arme?     no,  I  trowe  but  small. 
But  God  it  wote  I  must  care  for  all. 
For  bed  and  bak. 
And  alle  the  pakk 

That  nedis  unto  us. 
This  pakald  bere  me  bus, 


100 

It  fortheres  for  to  fene  me 

Of  all  I  plege  and  pleyne  me. 

But  Grod  graunte  grace  I  noght  for- 

gete 
No    tulles    that    we    shulde    with    us 
take. 
While  Mary  had  no  thought  but  for  the  safety  of  her  child,  Joseph, 
naturally  enough,  as  a  practical  man,  and  helpful  husband,  has  in 
mind  the  length  of  the  road  and  is  anxious  about  the  comfort  of 
the  mother  and  Babe.     In  the  Three  Days'  Loss,  Mary's  impatient 
solicitude  and  disquieting  despair  contrast  well  with  Joseph's  rea- 
sonable search  for  the  Boy,  though  his  bereavement  in  that  it  is 
silently  borne  is  none  the  less  heartfelt.     I  have  cited  the  charac- 
teristic scene  in  which  Joseph  urges  Mary  to  take  Jesus  from 
among  the  Doctors.    This  is  the  lasts  appearance  of  Joseph.    He 
retreats  with  Mary  from  the  Temple  to  Nazareth  and  is  heard 
of  no  more.     But  his  memory  abides  with  the  audience. 

Mary  next  appears  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross.  To  her  lamenta- 
tion, Marienklage,  preserved  in  a  thirteenth  century  manuscript, 
reference  has  already  been  made  as  illustrating  the  spirit  of  the 
playwright  and  audience ;  at  this  point  in  the  York  cycle  she  gives 
expression  to  her  grief,  not  in  a  sustained  lament,  but  in  short, 
direct  addresses  to  her  Son,  who  tries  to  console  her.  Her  words 
in  the  betrayal  of  Christ  in  the  Coventry  cycle.  Ward  believes,  give 
a  glimpse  of  genuine  tragic  passion. 

A!     A!     A!  how  myn  herte  is  colde! 

A!     hert  hard  as  stone  how  mayst  thou  lest? 

Whan  these  sorroweful  tydinges  are  the  told. 

So  wold  to  God,  hert,  that  thou  mytyst  brest. 

A!   Jhesu!   Jhesu!   Jhesu!   Jhesu! 

Why  xuld  ye  sofere  this  trybulacyon  and  advercyte? 

The  three  plays  after  the  Resurrection  that  have  to  do  with 
the  Death  of  Mary,  her  Appearance  to  Thomas  and  her  Corona- 
tion reflect  the  mind  of  the  playwright  with  reference  to  his 
heroine.  Despite  the  very  spiritual  nature  of  his  theme  he 
V-  manages  to  conduct  the  action  with  considerable  realism.  Mary 
has  a  vision  of  a  choir  of  Angels,  singing  before  her.  She 
listens  to  the  hymn ;  "Surge  proxima  mea  columba  mea  taber- 
nacula  glorie  vasculum  vite  templum  celeste,"  and  then  is 
greeted  by  a  series  of  alliterative  biddings  in  which  she  is  called 
"Maiden  and  modir  maid,  lilly  full  lusty,  chefteyne  of  chastite, 
and   rose   ripe   redolent".     She   is   borne   aloft   by   angels   who 


101 

sing  from  the  Canticles  (IV.  8)  Veni  de  Libano  sponsa  veni 
coronaberis.  Very  beautiful  is  Christ's  loving  welcome  to  his 
mother,  and  though  the  scene  takes  place  in  the  heights  of 
heaven,  the  sentiment  is  of  this  world.  All  her  sorrows  are 
forever  ended,  she  is  crowned  with  five  jo3^s  and  will  abide  beside 
her  Son  through  all  ages  as  His  *'modir  and  mayden  schene". 
Though  much  of  these  last  scenes  is  rather  spectacular  than 
dramatic  and  of  little  help  in  the  inner  development  of  the 
characters,  as  the  persons  are  influenced  largely  from  without; 
it  is  easy  to  see,  however,  that  this  glorification  of  Mary  is 
a  necessary  outcome  of  her  life  of  suffering  which  reaches  its 
climax  on  Calvary.  This  glorious  retribution  logically  finds  place 
after  the  Resurrection  of  the  Son  and  immediately  preceding 
the  public  triumph  of  His  friends  and  defeat  of  His  enemies,  as 
shown  in  the  Doomsday  pageant. 

Outside  the  role  of  the  hero,  nowhere  in  the  cycle  can  we 
follow  to  such  an  extent  the  growth  of  characterization  as  in 
the  parts  of  Joseph  and  Mary.  From  their  presentation  in  the 
York  cycle  one  finds  recapitulated  the  playwright's  power  of 
drawing  real  persons  in  a  series  of  actions,  and  the  degree  of 
his  perception  of  the  dramatic  in  life.  Many  times  his  dramatic 
instincts  have  been  noticed  in  these  pages,  but  the  natural 
consistency  between  the  poet's  conception  of  his  characters  and 
the  parts  he  allots  to  them  are  no  less  apparent  and  noteworthy. 
The  situation  in  which  we  find  Joseph  and  Mary,  are,  broadly 
speaking,  dramatic,  yet  not  the  least  strain  after  effect  is  any- 
where traceable;  the  words  fit  the  action,  and  the  surroundings 
make  the  action  probable.  It  is  true  that  written  and  oral 
information  had  preceded  the  dramatist  in  forming  the  popular 
concept  of  the  parents  of  Jesus,  and  no  doubt,  this  traditional 
view  determined  the  author  in  a  general  way,  but  apart  from 
this  drawback  he  had  room  sufficient  to  emphasize  and  deepen 
certain  lines  of  the  popular  picture  and  so  change  the  counten- 
ance that,  though  unable  to  alter  the  features,  he  effected,  never- 
theless, in  the  parts  of  Mary  and  Joseph  the  trarxsition  from  the 
mere  ideal  type  of  individual  to  the  truly  human  and  personal. 
This  was  a  progress  which  counts  for  much  when  one  remembers 
the  playwright's  limitations  and  particularly  if  we  compare  his 
work  with  the  authors  of  the  other  Cycles  or  even  with  tl^e 
writers  of  the  Moral  plays, 


102 

The  roles  of  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph  received  much  from 
their  position  as  part  of  an  organic  whole.  Scenes  in  which 
their  interests  only  are  concerned,  or  of  which  they  are  but 
remotely  the  occasion,  contributed  many  helpful  suggestions  and 
indirect  explanations  which  spared  the  audience  the  flat  and 
undramatic  expositions  of  the  Banns  or  Doctor.  The  cyclic 
arrangement  of  the  matter,  which  is  characteristic  of  the  early 
English  dramatic  writing,  facilitated  the  treatment  of  the  caste 
and  touches  at  more  points  than  is  evident  at  first  view  the 
regular  plot  of  the  early  Elizabethan  dramatists.  In  no  con- 
nection do  the  advantages  of  the  cyclic  or  serial  action  better 
come  to  light  than  in  contrast  of  the  comic  with  the  purely 
serious  element  which  we  have  just  been  considering.  But 
before  passing  to  illustrate  the  nature  of  the  lighter  sentiment 
in  the  Biblical  plays  it  may  be  well  to  examine  a  play  of  non- 
cyclic  character  which  owes  its  existence  to  its  own  dramatic 
worth.  The  independent  play  I  choose  is  that  treating  of  the 
familiar  theme,  the  Sacrifice  of  Abraham  and  Isaac,  which  is 
preserved  in  the  Brome  manuscript.*  It  occupies  only  four 
hundred  and  sixty-five  lines  in  all,  yet  there  is  a  proportion 
in  the  distribution  of  the  action  that  leaves  an  impression  of 
completeness. 

Incidentally  the  simple  and  effective  arrangement  of  this 
dramatically  pathetic  and  even  tragical  theme,  certainly 
unequaled  by  anything  in  the  cycles  in  the  way  of  character 
treatment,  shows  how  unnecessarily  slow  was  the  evolution  of 
the  cycles — not  to  speak  of  the  Moralities — in  passing  from  the 
liturgical  acts  to  the  beginnings  of  the  secular  drama.  The 
author  of  the  Brome  play  chooses  the  point  of  dramatic  interest 
in  Abraham's  long  life  and  excludes  every  circumstance  foreign 
to  his  purpose.  In  a  few  lines  he  suggests  more  than  the 
prologue  speaker  of  the  cycles  would  tell  in  fifty.  The  patriarch 
opens  with  a  direct  address  to  the  Almighty,  thanking  Him  for 
the  gift  of  land  in  which  he  is  to  lead  in  grateful  content  the 
evening  of  his  life.  More  than  for  his  life  and  land  Abraham 
is  bound  to  God  for  the  ''younge  chyld  Ysaac"  whom  he  loves 
half  greater  than  all  his  children  and  next  after  '*der  Fadir  of 
blysse." 

*  The  text  is  re-edited  from  Miss  Toulmin  Smith  in  the  Anglia  VII., 
316-337,  by  Professor  Manly,  Specimens  of  the  pre-Shakespearean  Drama, 
Vol.  1,  pp.  41-57,  ^        ■ 


103 

"And  therfor,  Fadyr  of  heuven,  I  the  prey 
Nowe,  Lorde,  kepe  hym  both  nyght  and  day, 
For  hys  helth  and  also  for  hys  grace; 

That  neuer  dessese  nor  noo  fray 
Come  to  my  chyld  in  noo  place." 

Isaac  is  indeed  deserving  of  his  father's  affection  for  his  only 
defect  (it  is  a  common  fault  in  all  the  six  Isaacs — with  the 
exception  possibly  of  the  virile  little  fellow  in  the  Woodkirk 
play)  is  his  unreal,  and  rather  theatrical  protestations  of  respect 
and  obedience  to  Abraham. 

"Abraham,  myne  own  fader  so  mylde. 
To  followe  youe  I  am  full  prest, 
Bothe  erly  and  late." 

This  glance  at  the  relation  of  the  father  and  son  prepares  for 
what  follows.  On  the  scaffold  above  the  patriarch  and  his 
son,  D'eus  has  been  listening  all  the  while.  He  summnos  an 
angel  whom  He  commissions  to  descend  "on-to  medyll  erth 
anon"  to  inform  Abraham  that  it  is  the  divine  pleasure  that  he 
offer  in  sacrifice  the  blood  of  his  child. 

"Say  I  commanded  hym  for  to  take 
Ysaac  hys  young  sonne,  that  he  love  so  wyll, 
And  with  hys  blood  sacryfyce  he  make, 
Yffe  ony  off  my  freynchepe  he  wyll  ffell." 

The  angel  descends  the  stairs  from  heaven  and  finds  Abraham 
engaged  at  his  morning  prayer,  asking  the  Almighty  what  might 
be  His  will  and  what  manner  of  ocering  would  be  most  agreeable 
in  His  sight.  Ten  Brink  thinks  that  Abraham  receives  the 
dreadful  ansvv'er  with  too  much  coolness  and  resignation. 
Abraham  speaks  like  a  moral  preacher,  not  like  a  father."* 
When  we  consider  the  origin  and  sanction  of  the  command 
which  admitted  of  no  alternative  in  connection  with  the  temper- 
ament of  the  patriarch,  anything  other  than  the  fullest  acquies- 
cence was  out  of  question.  His  action  may  not  be  so  dramatic 
as  we  can  fancy  a  like  scene  would  be  presented  to-day,  but 
the  Brome  Abraham  is  none  the  less  true.  He  did  precisely 
what  every  father  in  the  audience  would  have  done ;  and  when 
we  recall  with  what  facility  the  mediaeval  mind  looked  back  of 
the  symbol  and  seized  on  the  reality  of  things,  the  didactic 
and  impersonal  element  in  the  patriarch's  fiat  is  at  once  reduced 
to  a  minimum.    The  words  of  the  mitred  craftsman  above  stairs 


^  English  Literature,  Vol,  II,  part  1,  -p.  254, 


104 

were  easily  understood  as  voicing  the  will  of  God  which 
Abraham  receiving  as  such  was  bound  by  every  dictate  of 
reason  and  propriety,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  fatherly  sentiment, 
to  obey  unquestioningly.  Had  the  command  to  slay  Isaac 
come  from  King  Edward  or  Richard,  Abraham  might  well  waive 
the  test  and  defer  obedience.  A  ready  and  implicit  compliance 
to  such  an  authority  would  savor  of  socratic  renunciation  and 
be  justly  chargeable  with  playing  the  part  of  the  unfeeling 
moral  preacher  and  not  that  of  a  father.  Only  when  we  mistake 
the  mediaeval  view  does  Abraham's  attitude  appear  unreal. 

The  unswerving  will  in  Abraham  to  do  the  angel's  bidding, 
while  throughout  appreciatively  stronger  than  his  fatherly 
affection,  becomes,^  as  the  actual  process  begins,  swayed  and 
disturbed  by  natural  sentiment.  The  touch  is  especially  good 
which  shows  this  contrast  betweeh  the  will  and  the  deed.  One 
feels  the  conflict  waging  within  the  old  man's  bosom  as  the 
hour  for  leaving  for  the  mountain  of  sacrifice  draws  near. 
"Now,  Ysaac,  my  owne  son  dere, 
Where  art  thow,  ehyld?     Speak  to  me." 

Isaac  as  it  "prerys  to  the  Trenyte",  but  he  breaks  off  at  once 
and  holds  himself  ready  to  do  his  father's  bidding.  "The  child- 
like innocence  of  Isaac,"  says  Ten  Brink,  '*is  beautifully  set 
forth  and  in  a  way  that  must  have  touched  the  father's  heart, 
and  which  still  greatly  moves  the  spectator."  Both  collect  and 
bind  the  faggots,  Isaac  talking  the  while  in  the  most  endearing 
way  to  his  father.  As  Abraham  puts  the  bundle  on  the  boy's 
shoulder  he  is  overcome  with  grief. 

"A!  Lorde  or  heuyn,  my  handes  I  wryng, 
Thys  chyldes  wordes  all  to-wond  my  harte, 

And  again  as  the  father  asks  to  make  haste,  Isaac  answers: 
"Go  we,  my  dere  fader,  as  fast  as  I  may; 
To  followe  you  I  am  full  fayn 
All- thow  I  be  slendyr. 
Abraham: — A!     Lorde,  my  hart  brekyth  on  tweyn, 
Thys  chyldes  wordes,  they  be  so  tender." 

The  dialogue  and  action  on  the  mountain  are  transcripts  of 
nature,  and  yet  are  intensely  dramatic.  The  naive  inquisitive- 
ness  of  the  son  as  he  first  notices  his  father's  "heauy  chere", 
and  his  acknowledged  effort  to  make  him  feel  bright  and  happy 
is  particularly  fine,  as  well  as  the  effect  of  all  this  on  Abraham. 
Isaac,  failing  to  cheer  his  father,  is  naturally  led  to  inquire  intq 


105 

the  nature  and  cause  of  the  unwonted  dejection.  But  his  mind 
at  once  turns  on  an  idea  that  may  be  the  cause  of  the  gtiei 
and  which  proves  besides  to  be  of  immediate  personal  interest. 
The  fire  and  the  wood  is  ready  but  there  is  "no  qwyke  best" 
for  the  offering. 

"A  qwyke  best,  I  wot  wyll,  must  be  dede 

Your  sacryfyce  for  to  make. 
Abraham: — Dred  the  nowyth  my  ehilde,  I  the  red, 

Owr  Lord  wyll  send  me  on-to  thys  sted 

Summ  maner  a  best  for  to  take. 
Throw  hys  swet  sond. 
Ysaac: —      Ya,  fader,  but  my  hart  begynneyth  to  quake 

To  se  that  scharpe  sword  in  your  bond. 

Why  here  ye  your  sword  drawyn  soo? 

Off  your  conwnauns  I  haue  mych  wonder. 
Abraham: — A!  Fader  of  heuen,  so  I  am  woo! 

Thys  ehyld  her  brekys  my  harte  on-sonder. 
Ysaac: —      Tell  me,  dere  fader,  or  that  ye  sea, 

Ber  ye  your  sword  drawn  for  me? 
Abraham: — A!   Ysaac,  swet  son,  pes!   pes! 

For  i-wys  thow  breke  my  harte  on  thre. 
Ysaac: —      Now  trewly  sum-wat,  fader,  ye  thynke 

That  ye  morne  thus  more  and  more. 
Abraham: — A!  Lorde  of  heuen,  thy  grace  let  synke. 

For  my  harte  was  neuer  halffe  so  sore. 
Ysaac: —      I  preye  yow,  fader,  that  ye  wyll  let  me  that  wyt, 

Wyther  schall  I  heue  ony  harme  or  noo. 
Abraham: — I-wys,  swet  son,  I  may  not  tell  ye  yyt 

My  harte  ys  soo  full  of  woo. 
Ysaac: —      Dere  fader,  I  prey  yow,  hyd  it  not  fro  me, 

But  sum  of  yowr  thowt  that  ye  tell  me. 
Abraham: — A.  Ysaac,  Ysaac,  I  must  kyll  thee! 
Ysaac: —      Kyll  me,  fader?     alasse,  wat  haue  I  done? 

Yff  I  haue  trespassyd  a-gens  yow  owt,  t 

With  a  yard  ye  may  make  me  full  myld; 

And  with  your  scharp  sword  kyll  me  noyght, 

For  i-wys  fader,  I  am  but  a  chyld. 
Abraham: — I  am  full  sory,  son,  thy  blood  for  to  spyll. 

But  truly,  my  ehilde,  I  may  not  chese. 
Ysaac: —      Now  I  wolde  to  God  my  moder  were  here  on  thys  hyll! 

Sche  wolde  knele  for  me  on  both  hyr  kneys 
To  saue  my  lyffe. 

And  sythyn  that  my  moder  ys  not  here, 

I  prey  yow  fader,  schonge  yowr  chere. 

And  kyll  me  not  with  yowr  knyflfe." 

The  son  no  longer  pleads  for  his  life  when  Abraham  tells  him 
jt  is  God's  wi}l  that  calls  for  the  sacrifice  of  his  blood,    Is^ac 


106 

with  a  brevity  and  directness  that  smites  his  father's  heart,  asks 
"And  ys  yt  Goddes  wyll  that  I  schulde  be  slayn?'* 

He  resigns  himself  to   Abraham's   answer,   encourages  Jiim   to 

do  the  command  of  God,  but  begs  him  not  to  tell  his  mother 

what  has  happened. 

"But,  good  fader,  tell  ye  my  moder  no-thyng. 
Say  that  I  am  in  a-noyther  euntre  dwellyng." 

This  overpowers  the  father. 

"Sone,  thy  worddes  make  me  to  wepe  full  sore; 
Now,  my  dere,  son  Ysaac,  spake  no  mare. 
Ysaac: —      A!  myne  owne  dere  fader,  wherefore? 

We  schall  speke  to-gedyr  her  but  a  whyls. 
And  sythyn  that  I  nedysse  be  ded 
Yyt,  my  dere  fader,  to  yow  I  prey, 
Smythe  but  fewe  strokes  at  my  hed, 
And  make  an  end  as  sone  as  ye  may. 
And  tery   not  to   longe. 

Abraham  bursts  into  tears  and  embraces  his  son  a  second 
time.  Isaac  complains  that  his  father's  grief  affects  him  more 
than  the  shedding  of  his  own  blood.  Upon  this  Abraham  takes 
courage  to  bind  the  victim,  but  Isaac's  question  unnerves  him : 
"A!  mercy,  fader,  wy  schuld  ye  do  soo?"  He  consents  to  be 
bound  and  repeats  his  former  request  that  his  mother  will  hear 
nothing  of  the  deed,  for  if  she  should,  he  says,  she  would  weep 
''full  sore".  All  this  prolongs  the  agony  of  the  father  who  has 
still  to  hear  the  further  heart-rending  petition  for  pardon : 
"And  of  all  the  trespasse  that  euer  I  ded  meue  you. 
Now,  dere  fader,  forgyffe  me  that  I  haue  done." 

Abraham's  emphatic  answer  betrays  the  extent  of  his  grief: 
"A!  dere  chylde,  leafe  of  thy  monys; 
In  all  thy  lyffe  thow  grevyd  me  neuer  onys." 

Isaac  has  yet  to  ask  that  his  father's  handkerchief  be  put  over 
his  eyes  that  he  might  not  see  the  sharp  sword,  and  then  that 
his  face  be  turned  downward  for  the  same  reason,  and  finally 
that  Abraham  will  smite  "hastely"  and  "not  oftyn." 

These  favors  are  granted,  though  every  word  from  Isaac 
pierces  his  father's  soul  and  hardly  leaves  him  strength  suffi- 
cient to  drav/  the  sword.  The  poet,  whose  psychological  insight 
from  the  beginning  is  most  acute  and  sure,  gives  here  a  touch 
which  shows  how  fully  he  was  in  sympathy  with  his  theme. 
Abraham  all  through  had  shown  himself  disposed  to  hurry  the 


107 

action  and  strove  in  every  way  possible  to  waive  the  questions 
of  Isaac  or  so  to  distract  himself  from  the  thought  of  the  deed 
that  his  fore-image  of  the  bleeding  child  might  not  prevail  on 
his  resolution.  He  would  not  suffer  himself  to  listen  to  the 
appealing  words  of  Isaac  nor  look  on  his  fair  innocent  face,  for 
fear  his  heart's  affections  would  betray  him  and  cause  him  to  fail 
Un  the  fulfillment  of  his  duty: 

"My  hart  be-gynnth  strongly  to  rysse, 
To  see  the  blood  off  thy  blyssyd  body." 

When  the  fatal  moment  comes,  characteristically  enough,  it 
is  Abraham  that  delays  the  decisive  blow.  He  bewails  that  he 
should  have  lived  to  see  the  day,  he  prays  that  his  heart  'breke 
on  thre'  and  offers  to  God  the  sacrifice  of  his  life  in  place  of 
that  of  his  child.  He  defers  so  long  that  Isaac  asks  him  to 
have  mercy  and  not  delay  the  stroke : 

A!  mercy,  fader,  wy  tery  ye  so; 

And  let  me  ley  thus  longe  on  this  hethe?" 

This  moves  the  patriarch  to  the  final  decision;  addressing  his 
heart  reproachfully  he  draws  the  sword: 

"N"ow,  hart,  wy  wolddyst  not  thow  breke  on  thre? 
Yt  sehall  thou  not  make  me  to  my  God  on-myld. 

I  wyll  no  longer  let  for  the. 

For  that  my  God  agrevyd  wold  be; 
Now  hoold  tha  stroke,  my  owyn  dere  chyld. 

The  Angel  stays  his  hand  as  the  sword  is  to  fall  on  Isaac's 
neck,  and  explains  to  the  patriarch  how  God  was  pleased  with 
the  will  for  the  deed.  The  heavenly  messenger  on  departing 
points  to  the  ram  caught  in  the  thicket.  Abraham,  overcome 
with  joy,  breaks  forth  into  words  of  thafiksgiving : 

A!  Lord,  I  thanke  the  of  thy  gret  grace, 
Nowe,  am  I  yeyed  on  dyuers  wysse, 
A-rysse  up,  Ysaac,  my  dere  sunne,  arysse; 
A-rysse  up,  swete  chyld  and  cum  to  me. 

Unlike  the  Towneley  play  at  this  point  Abraham  will  not  speak  to 
the  heavenly  messenger  until  he  himself  has  released  and  kissed 
his  son,  in  the  Brome  play  Isaac  knows  nothing  of  the  Angel's 
intervention  and  all  the  while  awaits  the  fatal  stroke  in  silent 
suspense.  Consequently,  now  when  Abraham  bids  him  rise, 
he  fears  that  his  father  has  been  wanting  in  resolution. 

"A!  mercy  fader,  wy  smygth  ye  nowt? 
A!  smygth  on,  fader,  onys  with  your  knyffp/' 


108 

I  Abraham  tells  him  of  the  heavenly  visitor  and  the  happy  issue 
'  of  their  grief.  Isaac  wishes  that  he  could  believe  it.  Doubt 
and  fear  possess  his  mind  all  through  the  remaining  lines,  despite 
the  fact  that  Abraham  points  to  the  "blyssyd  scheppe"  which 
God  has  sent  for  the  sacrifice.  Even  when  the  victim  is  ready 
to  be  immolated  and  Isaac  feels  the  joy  of  life  and  the  pros- 
pective happiness  of  seeing  his  mother  again  he  can  not  persuade 
himself  that  all  danger  is  over.  He  asks  for  repeated  assurances 
that  his  life  will  be  spared,  as  when  he  fans  the  fire: 

But,  fader,  wyll  I  stowppe  downe  lowe. 

Ye  wyll  not  kyll  me  with  yowr  sword,  I  trowe. 

'The  patriarch  gently  assures  him  that  their  mourning  is  past 
and  that  he  must  not  entertain  such  idle  fears.  But  Isaac  can 
not  put  them  away. 

Ya!   but  I  woold  that  sword  were  in  a  gled, 
For,  i-wys,  fader,  yt  make  me  full  yll  a-gast. 

Abraham  offers  the  sacrifice  and  Deus  speaks  from  above  accept- 
ance of  it.  Father  and  son  fall  on  their  knees  and  thank  heaven 
for  its  manifold  blessings.  As  Abraham  and  Isaac  leave  for 
home,  a  'Doctour'  comes  on  the  stage  and  explains  at  length  the 
lesson  of  the  piece. 

From  this  brief  outline  of  the  action  it  is  sufficiently  evident 
that  the  author  of  this  isolated,  or  at  least,  detached  drama, 
understood  the  spirit  or  inner  movement  of  the  contrast 
between  the  tragic  quality  of  the  situation  and  the  non-tragical 
characters  of  the  persons  engaged  in  it.  The  struggle  presented 
in  this  most  pathetic  of  incidents  is  singularly  dramatic.  For 
the  purposes  of  the  playwright,  a  more  inspiring  theme  than 
this  Biblical  suggestion  of  the  clash  of  highest  interests  between 
obvious  duty  and  fatherly  affection,  could  hardly  be  conceived. 
The  characters  develop  not  by  any  external  agency  but  from 
within,  in  a  purely  moral  way.  The  outward  action  is  informed 
by  an  inner  principle.  The  variety  of  motives,  their  apposite 
arrangement,  the  logical  growth  of  influencing  causes  into 
effects  and  reactions — in  a  word,  from  the  general  impression 
of  the  whole  as  well  as  from  the  effective  and  artistically 
dramatic  setting  of  its  parts,  one  may  conclude  that  he  has  here 
in  this  religious  drama  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  highest 
result  of  a  conscious  effort  at  dramatic  effect  through  charac- 
terization,   It  will  be  remembered  th^t  although  the  Brome  plaj^, 


109 

Abraham  and  Isaac,  is  thought  to  be  independent  of  cyclic 
influences,  it  differs  however,  only  in  degree  of  perfection  from 
its  counter-part  in  the  cycle  series.  Indeed,  Ten  Brink  when 
noticing  the  richness  of  motives  and  varieties  of  thought  and 
emotion  as  presented  in  the  Brome  scene,  observes  that  some 
passages  in  it  arouse  in  hi'm  the  suspicion  that  motives  from 
other  plays  have  been  interwoven  with  the  representation  form- 
ing the  nucleus  of  this  play.  There  is  intrinsic  evidences  to 
confirm  the  suspicion  that  the  Brome  play  drew  from  many 
sources  and  that  its  originality  comes  rather  from  the  fusion 
and  recasting  of  foreign  material  than  by  way  of  a  studied 
deduction  direct  from  the  Biblical  suggestion.  In  either  case 
the  work  is  original  for  us — it  being  the  best  of  the  six  plays 
extant  on  the  subject — and  from  the  point  of  view  of  character- 
treatment  it  is  of  the  utmost  value  as  illustrative,  at  so  early 
a  date,  of  such  perfection  in  the  evolution  of  the  caste.  There 
is  a  genuine  growth  and  expansion  of  the  persons  outward  from 
within,  the  informing  principle  or  process  inside  furnishes  life, 
motive  and  meaning  to  the  external  activity.  There  has  been 
this  intrinsic  inner  force  operating  in  the  liturgic  and  cyclic 
characters,  but  for  its  full  perception  special  faculties  were 
required.  These,  it  has  been  said,  were  supplied  by  the  two  j 
senses  of  personality  and  responsibility  which  were  developed  j 
beyond  parallel  all  through  the  Middle  Ages.  The  environment, 
too,  in  disposing  favorably  the  acts  of  presentation  incited  the 
perceptive  powers  and  aided  in  bringing  out  the  significance  of 
the  action.  But  in  the  present  scene  the  matter  is  dramatic  in| 
itself,  and  it  is  its  human  side  which  is  accentuated.  It  belongs! 
to  the  Middle  Ages  but  the  sentiment,  while  peculiarly  suited 
to  the  mediaeval  temperament,  has  power  to  appeal  to  any 
audience  in  any  age.  There  is  an  element  of  human  interest 
in  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac  with  which  no  one  who  can  appreciate 
tragic  action  will  be  wanting  in  sympathy  while  he  beholds  this 
most  trying  struggle  within  the  range  of  the  dramatic — the  con- 
flict between  evident  duty  and  fatherly  affection. 

The  transition  to  the  Elizabethan  drama  from  the  Brome,  * 
Dublin,  or  Chester  plays  of  Abraham  and  Isaac,  or  from  the 
development  of  many  situations  all   through  the  cycles   might 
have  been  easily  effected.     Many  of  the  scenes  such  as  those 
treating  of  the  Crucifixion,  for  instance,   in  the   York   set,  or 


110 

the  play  of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the  Chester  Cycle,  which  is, 
in  its  way,  a  tragedy  in  little,  might  be  taken  from  the  series 
in  which  they  are  linked  and  worked  over  and  extended  into 
an  independent  drama.  This  was  tentatively  aimed  at  by  the 
liturgic  writer.  All  that  had  been  needed  was  fb  substitute  for 
the  exclusively  spiritual  or  supernatural  motives  of  the  religious 
dramas  incentives  of  a  more  sensible  nature,  connections  less 
occult  between  the  directing  thought  or  process  within  and  the 
outward  act.  Though  it  is  the  divine  element  within  the 
character  which  is  the  vivifying  germ  of  all  real  human  heroism 
and  this,  as  has  been  said,  was  intuitively  understood  by  the 
mediaeval  mind,  the  later  dramatist,  however,  felt  it  necessary, 
not  indeed  to  exclude  the  great  mian-spring  and  the  determin- 
ative of  human  activity  which  dwells  in  man's  nature,  but  to 
assume  its  existence  as  the  hidden  root-virtue,  whose  acts  and 
manifestations  it  was  his  main  task  to  emphasize.  Here,  perhaps, 
we  may  see  at  the  closest,  how  strictly  one  the  early  conception 
^-  (of  characterization  was  with  the  highest  Elizabethan  develop- 
Iment  of  it,  and  how  unbroken  the  continuity  from  the  origin  of 
'the  Gothic  drama  to  its  fullest  perfection,  had  been  the  play- 
wright's growing  consciousness  of  the  need  of  presenting  his 
persons  in  lifelike  action,  reasoning,  willing  and  feeling.  This 
was  the  aim  immutable.  What  ever  contributed  to  realize 
this  great  end  was  straightway  canonized  as  dramatic  material. 
The  Liturgical  drama  retained  throughout  close  affinities 
to  its  sacrosanct  origins,  never  forsaking  its  solemn  ritualistic 
character,  so  far,  at  least  as  any  conscious  introduction  of  the 
comic  is  concerned.  With  the  cycles  this  was  not  the  case. 
Though  in  purpose  and  matter  these,  too,  were  essentially 
.  faithful  to  their  Sacred  beginnings,  the  religious  element  predom- 
inating to  the  last,  they  were  not,  however,  so  exclusively  serious 
as  not  to  admit  at  times  a  seasoning  mixture  of  what  was  less 
weighty,  humorous  touches,  comical  incidents  and  downright 
incongruous  farces.  It  is  here  at  this  early  period  in  the 
development  of  the  drama  that  we  find  the  crude  beginnings  of 
what  was  later  to  be  perfected  by  the  Elizabethan  writers — the 
intermingling  of  the  light  with  the  grave,  the  trivial  with  the 
serious,  comedy  with  tragedy.  Here  also  at  the  birth  of  the 
comic  element  in  the  religious  drama  one  sees  best  the  difference 
between  the  Biblical  writer  and  the  mediaeval  playwright.    Seen 


Ill 

from  this  side  one  appreciates  at  its  fullest  the  mite  of  origin- 
ality in  the  treatment  of  the  persons  of  the  Bible  and 
particularly  the  attitude  of  the  dramatist  toward  his  non- 
biblical  caste.  His  constant  attention  to  what  is  dramatic  in 
their  lives,  as  was  observed  when  speaking  of  his  search  for 
contrasts,  and  his  effort  to  recast  the  biblical  material  and 
make  it  appeal  to  his  audience  by  such  indefensible  processes 
as  modernizing  and  localizing  by  homely  allusions  of  the  day 
in  Mediaeval  England  events  that  took  place  at  the  dawn  of 
time  in  heaven  and  hell,  Chaldea  and  Calvary,  Bethlehem  and 
Egypt,  show  attempts  at  realism  which  facilitated  and  fostered 
greatly  the  beginnings  of  English  comedy.  The  insight  one 
gets  into  the  dramatic  purpose  of  the  playwright  from  the 
consideration  of  his  partiality  for  the  imponderable  parts  of  his 
matter  is  of  the  greatest  importance  in  an  estimate  of  character- 
ization during  the  cyclic  period.  The  introduction  of  the  comic 
— itself  a  natural  outgrowth  of  a  fuller  treatment  of  the  serious 
and  tragic — humanized  the  purely  spiritual  drama  of  the  Sanc- 
tuary and  made  it  more  concrete  than  any  external  influence 
could  have  done.  Similarly  it  will  be  the  coarse  comic  element 
that  will  keep  the  Moral  plays  in  touch  with  the  audience,  and 
give  to  the  abstractions  in  appearance  outwardly,  the  semblance 
somewhat  of  the  very  close  relation  in  which  the  allegorical 
figures  actually  stood  to  the  persons  of  real  life. 

Incidents  and  scenes  of  relief  have  been  noted  from  time  to 
time  in  summarizing  the  action  of  the  York  Cycle.  This  set  of 
plays,  however,  is  perhaps,  the  least  remarkable  for  that  display 
of  merriment  on  every  occasion  to  be  met  with,  for  instance, 
in  the  Towneley  cycle  of  which  Mr.  Courthope  says,  that  "it 
would  indeed  almost  seem  as  if  the  author,  in  attempting  to 
gratify  the  taste  of  his  Wakefield  audience,  had  studied  the 
York  text,  and  had  deliberately  resolved  to  bring  the  comic 
elements  of  that  play  into  exaggerated  relief."  The  York  writer, 
whose  sense  of  dramatic  proportions  preserved  him  on  the  one 
side  from  the  didacticism  of  the  Coventry  Cycle,  and  on  the  other, 
from  the  more  supportable  weakness  of  the  Towneley  play- 
wright's bent  to  carricature  and  burlesque,  divined  perhaps,  with 
a  surer  instinct  than  any  of  his  contemporaries  the  true  function 
of  the  comic  in  tragedy.  His  humorous  incidents  appear  to  grow 
out  of  his  material,  or  at  least,  they  never  strike  one  as  such 


112 

patent  inorganic  interpolations  as  do  the  Towneley  Noah  and 
Secunda  Pastorum,  for  instance,  or  Joseph's  Jealousy  and  the 
Trial  of  Mary  in  the  VII  and  XIV  plays  of  the  Coventry  Cycle. 

In  the  presentation  of  the  comic  no  less  than  in  the  purely 
serious  matter  one  finds  reflected  the  spirit  of  the  mediaeval 
times  and  the  unerring  instinct  of  the  playwright  in  divining  a 
process  of  dramatic  action  which  the  practice  of  Shakespeare 
alone  seemed  capable  of  defending.  "The  parent  stock  of  the 
English  Chronical  Plays  (as  of  the  comedy  of  manners  and 
some  other  forms  of  realistic  drama)/'  writes  Professor  Schell- 
ing,  "is  ultimately  the  comedy  element  in  the  old  sacred  drama. 
It  was  thence  that  the  Chronical  play  drew  its  sense  of  comedy 
and  its  adhesion  to  simple  realism  in  the  representation  of  scenes 
of  actual  life."*  George  Whetstone  in  the  dedication  of  his 
"Promos  and  Cassandra"  gives  this  description  of  the  nature 
of  the  popular  theatrical  representation  in  1578:  "The  English- 
man in  this  quality  is  most  vain,  indiscreet  and  out  of  order. 
He  first  grounds  his  works  on  impossibilities,  then,  in  three 
hours,  runs  he  through  the  world,  marries,  gets  children,  makes 
children  men,  men  to  conquor  kingdoms,  murder  monsters  and 
bring  the  gods  from  heaven,  and  fetches  devils  from  hell :  and, 
that  which  is  worse  their  ground  is  not  so  imperfect  as  their 
working  indiscreet ;  not  weighing,  so  the  people  laugh,  though 
they  laugh  them  for  their  follies  to  scorn.  Many  times  to  make 
mirth,  they  make  a  clown  a  companion  to  the  king;  in  their 
general  counsels  they  allow  the  advice  of  fools,  yea  they  use 
one  order  of  speech  for  all  persons,  a  gross  indecorum. "t  That 
all  these  charges  as  stated  might  not  be  alleged  against  the 
work  of  the  cyclic  playwright  is  evident;  but  it  is  nevertheless 
true  that  what  had  become  the  ordinary  license  in  the  Chronical 
play  and  Romantic  drama  before  the  time  of  Shakespeare  was 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  and  practice  of  the  religious 
stage. 

Five  years  later,  about  1583,  another  theorist,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney  repeats  in  his  Apology  the  complaint.  Plays  were 
"neither  right  tragedies  nor  right  comedies,  mingling  kings  and 
clowns,  not  because  the  matter  so  carrieth  it,  but  thrusts  in  the 


*  Schelling,  F.  E.,  The  English  Chronical  Play,  p.  28. 
t  For  Dedication,  see  Gregory  Smith  "Elizabethan  Critical  Essays,"  Vol. 
I,  68-60. 


113 

clown  by  head  and  shoulders,  to  play  a  part  in  majestical  matters 
with  neither  decency  nor  discretion ;  so  as  neither  the  admiration 
and  commiseration  nor  right  sportfulness  is  by  their  mongrel 
tragi-comedy  obtained."  This  censure,  not  at  all  addressed  to 
the  Sacred  drama  for  w^hich  Sidney  had  little  regard,  was 
however,  as  applicable  to  it  as  to  the  other  species.  Tragi- 
comedy had  its  origin  in  the  religious  representations  as  the 
Mystery  of  the  Passion,  before  referred  to,  would  show.  In 
that  play  the  Mercator  is  not  "thrust  in  by  head  and  shoulders", 
nor  is  there  "the  gross  indecorum"  of  using  one  order  of  speech 
for  all  persons,  as  the  cosmetics  are  bought  and  the  songs  arc 
sung  in  the  vernacular.  It  is  evident  to  every  one  how  much 
this  shopping-scene,  immediately  preceding  Magdalen's  conver- 
sion and  the  Crucifixion  itself,  served  to  heighten  these  subse- 
quent parts  of  the  play.  Nothing  could  further  the  interests  of 
characterization  more  directly  than  the  effort  called  forth  here 
to  present,  even  with  the  faint  semblance  of  reality,  the  truly 
dramatic  transitions  in  this  brief  play. 

Numerous  instances  might  be  given  which  would  go  to 
show  that  certain  germinations  of  tragi-comedy  manifest 
themselves  in  the  Cycles.  I  am  not  implying  that  all  the  pieces 
of  rusticity  and  buffonry  one  meets  with  existed  "because  the 
matter  so  carrieth  it",  neither  should  I  feel  warranted  to  go  to 
the  other  extreme  and  say  that  nothing  of  the  light,  humorous 
and  even  the  burlesque  was  of  organic  growth,  belonging  to  the 
genius  of  the  subject.  This  much  is  true,  that  one  seldom  finds 
the  comic  introduced  for  its  own  sake  but  that  in  most  cases 
the  contrast  of  the  light  with  the  grave  adds  considerably  to 
the  general  effect.  The  playwright  has  in  mind  the  reproduction 
of  the  actual  scene  and  it  is  frequently  remarkable  with  what 
pains  he  aims  at  a  certain  fineness  of  truth.  The  vivid  manner 
in  which  the  Towenely  writer  conceives  the  scene  v/hich  presents 
the  Sacrifices  of  Cain  and  Abel  is  an  instance  in  point.  Cain's 
workman,  Pyke-Harnes,  "a  merry  lad,  both  blithe  and  glad" 
speaks  the  prologue,  calling  on  the  audience  to  put  an  end  to 
noise  and  talk.  His  words  are  scarcely  over  when  Cain  enters 
with  a  team — or  more  accurately,  pulls  up  on  a  reserved  space 
of  ground  beside  the  scaffold.  The  ox  and  mare  that  draw 
the  plow  are  unmanageable — a  circumstance  which  gives  occa- 
sion to  present  the  ploughman  in  his  heated  moments.     Cain's 


114 

language  is  characteristic  throughout;  the  Towneley  author 
strives  to  stamp  every  word  uttered  by  his  characters  with  a 
peculiar  accent  unmistakably  their  own.  When  the  gentle  Abel 
comes  before  the  spectators  wishing  Cain  and  his  man  "a  God 
spede",  he  actually  finds  the  ploughman  and  servant  at  fists. 
He  parts  them  and  peace  is  restored,  but  Cain's  disposition  is 
not  changed.  His  very  answer  to  Abel's  salutation  would  show 
the  spiteful  disregard  of  the  insolent  and  envious  miser  towards 
his  brother.  We  have  seen  the  reasons  Cain  gave  in  the  York 
Cycle  for  not  wishing  to  ofi^er  tithes  to  God,  as  Abel  bids  him 
at  this  point  to  do ;  among  others  these  are  what  he  alleges  here 
"When  all  mens  come  was  fayre  in  feld. 

Then  was  myne  not  worthe  an  eld; 

When  I  should  saw   (sow),  and  wanted  sede. 

And  of  corne  had  fiille  grete  neyde. 

Then  gaf  he  me  none  of  his, 

No  more  wille  I  gif  hym  of  this." 

Fear  rather  than  love  or  duty  moves  him  to  follow  Abel  to  the 
•place  of  sacrifice.  Feeling  it  impossible  to  revenge  himself  on 
God,  he  grows  at  every  step  more  vindictive  toward  his  brother 
whose  generous  disposition  is  a  continuous  reproach  to  his 
ungrateful  spirit.  Abel  is  shocked  at  the  height  of  insolence 
on  the  part  of  Cain,  who  deliberately  assorts  two  dozen  sheafs, 
the  poorest  in  his  property,  to  offer  as  a  holocaust  to  the  Lord. 
The  clever  commingling  of  the  comic  and  serious  elements  here 
would  go  far  to  justify  Mr.  Pollard's  statement  that  the  author 
of  the  Towneley  Mactatio  Abel,  was  a  genius.*  The  rejection 
of  his  sacrifice,  evident  in  that  it  was  not  consumed  without 
smoke,  and  the  acceptance  of  Abel's  lamb  enkindle  his  wrath 
the  more,  and  as  if  it  were  impossible  for  jealousy  and  anger  to 
burn  fiercer  within  his  breast,  when  he  hears  the  formal  reprov- 
ing voice  from  heaven  his  passion  apparently  calms.  In  the 
whole  round  of  the  Cycle,  I  doubt  that  there  be  many  touches 
truer  to  nature  than  this  manifested  in  the  affected  composure 
Cain  assumes  to  hide  more  effectively  his  murderous  design. 
The  sudden  transition  from  a  violent  hate  to  a  hypocritical 
placidity  of  mind  reveals  the  depth  of  his  passion.  Abel,  with 
characteristic  innocence  is  betrayed  by  the  seeming  sincerity  of 
his  brother.     He  goes  with  Cain  into  the  fields,  where,  without 


*  Journal   of  Comparative  Literature,  Vol.   I,   No.   4,  pp.   324-344.     The 
Character  of  Cain,  by  Paul  Hamelius. 


115 

the  remotest  positive  cause,  the  inhuman  archmurderer  falls 
on  his  brother  and  crushes  him  to  death.  The  divine  curse  is 
pronounced  over  Cain,  who  seeks  to  hide  himself  from  the  face 
of  God. 

The  scene  that  follows  the  fratricide  and  malediction  affords 
the  playwright  an  occasion  to  show  the  hero  in  the  most 
calamitous  circumstance  imaginable.  The  language  and  action 
of  Cain  reflect  his  mental  state — the  traditional  seven  mortal 
sins  of  which  legend  held  him  guilty,  so  operate  within  his 
breast  that  he  appears  to  be  less  a  rational  being  than  a  sensible 
composite  of  this  seven-fold  spiritual  activity.  And  yet  he  is 
intensely  human.  His  fiendish  exultation  over  the  dead  body 
of  his  brother,  only  surpassed  by  the  bold  defiance  he  offers 
to  God,  would  lead  one  to  infer  otherwise.  A  careful  study 
of  the  play  will  justify  the  conclusion  that  the  conduct  of 
Cain,  even  in  the  second  part  of  the  play,  differs  essentially  from 
the  roles  of  Satan  and  his  fellows  (with  whom,  however,  the 
mediaeval  painter  was  wont  to  associate  the  first  murderer)  as 
these  impersonations  of  evil  are  conceived  by  the  playwright 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  two  senses  of  personality  and  respon- 
sibility, I  should  venture  to  say,  are  abnormally  keen,  though 
dulled  by  his  seven-fold  guilt.  The  whole  tenor  of  his  actions, 
notably  his  will,  however  reluctant  to  follow  Abel  to  offer  tithes, 
and  his  effort  to  hide  from  the  Lord  after  the  murder,  makes 
it  appear  that  Cain  was  fully  sensible  of  the  divine  sanction 
governing  his  conduct.  At  times  his  words  would  lead  one  to 
infer  the  contrary,  but  his  deeds  are  surer  indices  of  his  belief 
than  his  words,  and  the  opposition  here  between  words  and  acts 
is,  or  is  analogous  to,  the  rendering  explicit  through  speech 
and  movement,  the  willingness  or  unwillingness  to  do  a  deed  or 
follow  a  course  of  action.  This  making  objective,  a  personifica- 
tion of  the  secret,  inner  prompting  of  the  human  spirit,  would 
appear  to  me  the  main  work  of  the  moral  playwright. 

How  wide  the  playwright's  conception  was  of  the  truth 
in  his  presentation  of  this  scene  from  Genesis,  will  always  remain 
an  open  question.  That  it  illustrates  the  point  for  which  I 
have  chosen  to  speak  of  it  here,  is  evident  to  all  who  have 
considered  the  nature  of  the  tragi-comic  in  the  Elizabethan 
drama.  To  put  into  serious  dramas  sorcerers,  peasants,  drunk- 
ards, buffoons,  grave-diggers  in  the  act  of  making  a  grave  and 


116 

singing  drinking  songs  as  they  play  with  the  skulls  of  the 
dead,  grated  on  Voltaire's  sensibilities.  But  had  he  observed 
closer  he  might  have  found,  as  Prof.  Lounsbury  aptly  points 
out,  ''that  the  grave-diggers  sing  songs;  but  they  are  not 
drinking  songs,  and  in  the  exercise  of  their  calling  they  throw 
up  skulls  but  they  do  not  play  with  them.''* 

Place  side  by  side  the  narrative  in  the  fourth  chapter  of 
Genesis  and  its  dramatization  by  the  Woodkirk  playwright  and 
it  will  appear  that  he  came  nearer  to  fact  than  is  commonly 
thought.  To  the  meagre  outline  given  by  the  sacred  writer, 
the  author  of  the  play  worked  out  the  suggestion  Into  reasonable 
fullness  in  a  just,  dramatic  progression.  That  his  interpreta- 
tion of  the  Scriptural  passage  is  wholly  in  keeping  with  the 
suggestion  of  the  text  no  one  will  be  likely  to  deny;  on  the 
contrary,  it  is  for  his  extreme  realism  that  he  is  censured.  In 
his  work  one  may  perceive  many  of  those  germinations  that 
were  to  grow  to  fruitage  in  the  Elizabethan  drama.  The  lovable 
character  of  Abel  and  the  mild  rebuke  from  God :  "Cain  why 
art  thou  so  rebelle.  Agans  thi  brother  Abelle?"  are  contrasted 
with  the  insolent  and  irreverent  attitude  Cain  manifests  through- 
out. The  long  scene  that  presents  the  hero  choosing  and  count- 
ing the  poorest  sheaves  to  pay  the  tithes  brings  out  the  antithesis 
in  Cain's  moral  life  better  than  pages  of  analytical  writing. 
Again,  the  introduction  of  Pyke-Harnes,  a  personage  wholly 
unknown  to  the  inspired  writer,  was  the  fashioning  of  a  stage- 
machine  that  looks  like  a  creation  of  a  born  playwright.  Pyke- 
harnes  is  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest  and  seemingly  as  irresponsible 
morally  and  socially  as  his  descendants  on  the  Elizabethan 
stage.  How  happily  he  serves  the  author  in  the  development 
of  the  hero ! 

More  need  not  be  said  in  this  place  in  reference  to  the  cyclic 
playwright's  view  of  the  stage  as  an  expression  of  life — the 
whole  life,  tragic  and  comic.  It  is  wonderful  with  what 
directness  and  truth-  in  his  inimitable,  unvarnished  way  he 
brought  out,  at  times,  with  some  dramatic  intensity,  the  complex 
existence  of  the  Biblical  characters.  With  obvious  limitations. 
Voltaire's  confession  is  applicable  to  the  Mediaeval  stage. 
"When   I   began   to   learn   the   English   language,   I   could   not 


*  Shakespeare  and  Voltaire,  p.  61. 


117 

understand  how  so  enlightened  a  people  could  admire  an  author 
(Shakespeare)  so  extravagant.  But  when  I  gained  a  fuller 
acquaintance  with  the  speech,  I  perceived  that  the  English  were 
right,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  a  whole  nation  to  be  deceived 
in  a  matter  of  sentiment,  and  to  be  wrong  in  being  pleased. 
They  saw,  as  I  did,  the  gross  faults  of  their  favorite  author, 
but  they  felt  better  than  I  his  beauties,  all  the  more  remarkable 
because  they  are  lightning  flashes  which  have  sent  forth  their 
gleams  in  profoundest  night."* 


*  Lounsbury,  T;     Shakespeare  and  Voltaire,  p.  51. 


CHAPTER  V. 


CHARACTERIZATION  IN  THE  MORAL  PLAYS 

The  development  of  the  Liturgical  drama  into  the  Cyclic  series 
was  a  natural,  and  dramatic  conditions  considered,  a  necessary 
growth.  The  idea  undeveloped  in  the  Sanctuary  Scenes,  however 
essentially  prolific  we  admit  it  to  be  in  itself,  would  remain  to  a 
great  extent  potential  and  inoperative  as  long  as  it  abode  within 
the  seclusion  of  the  sacred  precincts.  We  have  seen  in  what  sense 
it  was  necessary  for  dramatic  advancement  that  the  Liturgical  play 
should  cease  to  be  liturgic.  In  passing  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
clergy  in  their  naves  and  choirs,  to  those  of  the  laity  in  their  market- 
places and  guild  halls,  the  dramatic  germ  which  drew  its  life  from 
the  liturgy  met  with  the  needed  conditions  for  growth.  It  may  be 
questioned,  however,  if  the  Middle  English  cycles  contributed  in  a 
more  positive  way  to  the  Elizabethan  drama  than  in  affording  a 
more  or  less  congenial  atmosphere  to  the  unfolding  and  developing 
of  what  was  germinally,  at  least,  contained  in  Liturgical  plays.  No 
doubt  there  is  a  great  distance  between  the  first  informal  sugges- 
tion and  actual  execution  of  the  idea  in  finished  work.  Moreover, 
it  is  purely  speculative  to  ask  was  it  necessary  to  await  the  slow 
round  of  the  Cycles  to  reach  the  transition  stage.  The  fact  is  that 
in  adapting,  defining  and  enlarging  the  Sanctuary  Scenes,  which 
was  the  great  work  of  the  cyclic  playwright,  much  dramatic  knowl- 
edge was  acquired.  New  aspects  of  the  central  idea  were  observed, 
new  dramatic  points  in  the  action  were  disclosed,  invention  was 
elicited,  efforts  to  condense,  recast  and  harmonize  loosely  connected 
incidents  were  called  for,  non-Biblical  material  was  introduced,  in- 
terest was  quickened  and  the  auditors  grew  more  exacting. 

Characterization  was  advanced  by  the  removal  of  the  stage 
from  the  sanctuary  to  the  market-greens.  Humanism  had  set  in 
and  its  spirit  was  slowly  permeating  all  institutions  and  classes  of 
society,  so  that  actions  and  incidents  which  at  an  earlier  date  edified 
and  pleased,  edified  indeed  as  before,  but  were  now  more  apt  to 
grow  tiresome.  Unalloyed  religious  seriousness  was  no  longer  rel- 
ished.    Incidents  of  relief,  not  to  say  of  profane  burlesque,  had  to 

118 


119 

be  introduced  to  attract  and  keep  the  audience.  What  ever  widened 
the  sphere  of  the  playwright  meant  a  corresponding  growth  and 
variety  in  his  characters.  New  phases  of  the  hero's  Hfe  appeared, 
recesses  of  his  soul  that  no  analysis  could  translate  into  words 
were  shown  open  to  the  spectators  by  the  brutal  gesture,  the  scorn- 
ful glance  and  slanderous  tongue.  Somewhat  in  this  way  it  was 
that  an  atmosphere  favorable  to  dramatic  life  and  character-treat- 
ment resulted  from  the  activity  of  the  cyclic  playwright.  Remote 
preparations  were  made  for  the  Elizabethan  drama.  The  historical, 
comic,  grotesque  as  well  as  dramatic  elements  of  these  early  efforts 
might  be  so  verified  as  to  become  component  parts  of  a  Shake- 
spearean play.  At  all  events  it  was  to  be  expected  that  a  new  in- 
dependent species  might  at  any  moment  be  deduced  from  the  ex- 
perience and  suggestion  afforded  by  the  adaptation  and  continual 
revision  of  the  cycles.  The  new  species  or  sub-variety  which  grew 
into  prominence  was  known  as  the  Moral  Play. 

As  complement  of  the  cycles  the  Moral  play  which  emphasized 
in  a  special  way  the  ethical  side  of  human  existence  and  the  sacra- 
mental system  of  the  Church  had  a  distinct  value  and  appropriate- 
ness apart  from  its  dramatic  importance.  In  the  plays  that  had  to 
do  with  Scriptural  history  the  doctrinal  side  of  Giristianity  was 
brought  chiefly  into  the  foreground,  the  playwright  not  unfre- 
quently  treating  his  material  with  an  evident  apologetic  purpose  in 
view.  However  well  it  rounded  out  the  religious  teachings  of  the 
cycles,  the  Morality  as  a  dramatic  species,  was  apparently  the  least 
fitted  of  the  many  possible  varieties  suggested  by  the  Biblical  series 
to  lead  long  in  the  struggle  for  life.  If  one  would  expect  in  the 
course  of  dramatic  evolution  the  survival  of  the  fittest  from  every 
generation,  it  would  seem  that  we  should  regard  the  moral  play  as 
an  anomaly,  a  barren  and  abortive  side-growth  from  a  stem  of 
promise.  When  the  idea  of  struggle  and  conflict  present  incipiently 
in  the  Liturgical  drama  had  been  elaborated  and  rendered  so  con- 
crete by  the  long  activity  of  the  cyclic  playwrights  as  to  have  re- 
duced the  general  to  the  particular  and  personal — to  be  on  the  point 
of  introducing  real  persons  and  manners  on  the  stage — a  reaction 
took  place.  It  looked,  at  least  from  the  point  of  view  of  character- 
treatment,  as  if  the  drama  were  to  begin  its  career  over.  Instead 
of  regular  Comedy  and  Tragedy  anticipating  the  dissolution  of  the 
long-lived  Mysteries,  these  were  suffered  not  to  die  but  to  become 
transformed  into  what  would  seem  their  primal  state — the  abstrac- 


120 

tions  of  the  Moralities.  The  Four  Sisters,  Mercy,  Truth,  Peace 
and  Justice,  were  to  meet  one  another  again  on  the  stage  from 
which  they  had  made  their  exit  early  in  the  Coventry  cycle. 

"Allegory  in  the  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  says  Mr. 
Courthope,  "presents  itself  under  three  aspects:  (i)  As  a  philo- 
sophical method  of  interpreting  the  phenomena  of  nature  (2)  As 
an  abstracting  process  of  the  mind  which  embodies  itself  in  the 
rhetorical  figure  of  Personification ;  (3)  As  specific  form  of  Poetry."  * 
There  is  no  question  of  the  Mediaeval  predeliction  for  this  form 
of  writing.  The  extensive  cultivation  of  allegory  by  poets  and 
romancers  would  of  itself  be  sufficient  to  settle  any  doubt  as  to  the 
popular  taste  in  this  respect.  This  is  noteworthy  in  the  present  con- 
nection where  it  is  in  place  to  trace  out  the  course  by  which  char- 
acter-treatment in  this  chief  among  the  apparently  destructive  species 
of  drama  had  come  to  make  contribution  to  the  advance  of  charac- 
terization in  a  positive  way.  f 

Considered  in  itself,  the  return  to  the  presentation  of  abstract 
allegorical  personages  certainly  would  seem  to  indicate  a  retarding, 
if  not  an  actual  retrogression  in  the  growth  of  dramatic  character- 
ization. To  substitute  for  the  homely,  historical  persons  of  the 
Bible,  creations  of  the  mind,  such  as  Contemplation,  Human  Na- 
ture, God's  Felicity,  Light  of  the  Gospel,  Ecclesia,  Synagoga,  Gen- 
tilitas,  etc.,  appears  at  first  sight  to  put  quite  out  of  thought  the 
essentials  of  dramatic  composition.  Such  a  process,  it  would  seem, 
sapped  at  the  very  vitals  of  character-life  and  made  all  progressive 
growth  impossible.  That  the  Moral  plays,  however,  were  in  some 
respects,  in  advance  of  the  Cyclic  drama,  even  in  the  way  of  charac- 
ter-treatment, and  its  complement  from  a  dramatic  as  well  as  re- 
ligious point  of  view,  will  sufficiently  appear  from  a  brief  account 
of  the  species  as  a  whole,  and  an  analysis  of  a  few  representative 
moralities.     They  recapitulated  to  some  extent  the  vital  dramatic 

*  W.  J.  Courthope,  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I,  pp.  341-392. 

t  Professor  Brander  Matthews  in  describing  the  nature  of  the  Moral 
plav.  indicates  this  relative  dramatic  advance  of  the  Morality  Species.  "The 
Moralitv  was  an  attempt  to  depict  character,  but  with  the  aid  of  the 
primarv  colors  only,  and  with  an  easy  juxtaposition  of  light  and  darkness. 
Yet  it 'helped  along  the  development  of  the  drama  in  that  it  permitted  a 
freer  handling  of  the  action,  since  the  writer  of  the  Moralities  had  always 
to  invent  his  plots,  whereas  the  maker  of  Mysteries  (Cyclic  playwrights) 
had  his  stories  ready  made  to  his  hand.  The  Morality  was  frankly  fiction, 
while  the  Miracle  play  gave  itself  out  for  fact.  Then  also  the  tendency 
seems  irresistable,  for  any  author  who  has  an  appreciation  of  human  nature 
to  go  speedily  from  the  abstract  to  the  concrete,  and  to  substitute  for  the 
cold  figure  of  Pride  itself,  the  fiery  portrait  of  an  actual  man  who  is  proud." 


121 

qualities  of  the  Liturgical  and  Cyclic  period  and  added  to  them  the 
individuality  of  a  new  expression.  This  is  true  of  the  whole  species 
generally,  yet  there  are  important  accidental  differences  between 
the  earlier  and  later  Moral  Plays. 

Ordinarily  it  advances  an  explanation  but  little  to  say  that  there 
is  much  similarity  among  the  several  species  of  a  literary  genus,  or 
among  individual  compositions  of  a  species.  We  rea^d  a  sixth  novel, 
though  we  are  convinced  beforehand  that  the  plot  and  denouement 
are  identical  in  the  main,  with  one  or  other  of  the  preceding  five. 
So,  too,  it  is  hardly  true  that  there  is  no  originality  in  the  treatment 
of  the  several  Moralities.  Everyman,  New  Custom,  The  Conflict 
of  Conscience  and  the  Three  Ladies  of  London,  which  are  among 
the  later  moralities  in  point  of  time,  and  in  many  respects  reached 
the  perfection  of  the  species  in  England,  are  at  once  very  like  and 
very  different,  for  instance,  from  the  "Macro  Moralities,"  which 
are  the  earliest  plays  of  the  moral  type.  For  the  purpose  of  this 
Essay,  details  must  be  dispensed  with  and  only  typical  plays  chosen. 
Some  definite  idea  of  the  characters  may  be  formed  with  greater 
precision  by  dwelling,  first,  on  the  early  moral  plays,  to  wit,  those 
contemporary  with  the  Cyclic  drama  or  those  that  drew  their  exist- 
ence more  directly  and  immediately  from  the  Biblical  Plays,  as  the 
Coventry  set  would  lead  one  to  infer;  and  then  it  will  be  in  place 
to  treat  of  character-presentation  in  the  several  later  varieties  which 
were  mediately  derived  from  the  Cyclic-series  and  directly  the  out- 
growth, for  most  part,  of  the  preceding  moralities. 

"In  tracing  the  origin  and  course  of  unconscious  growth,"  says 
Ward,  "it  is  well  to  abstain  from  any  endeavor  to  draw  hard  and 
fast,  and  therefore  more  or  less  arbitrary,  lines  of  demarkation."  * 
This  is  very  true  and  necessary.  It  is  well,  however,  in  the  present 
connection,  to  distinguish  between  earlier  Moralities,  that  is,  the 
moral  plays  as  such — didactic  and  allegorical ;  and  the  later  morali- 
ties that  were  planned  on  a  less  extensive  scale  and  ordinarily  of  a 
less  religious  import,  and  subjected  to  secularizing  influences  which 
in  great  part  modified  their  nature.  In  this  way  we  shall  the  better 
see  how  the  growing  Humanism  with  its  manifold  offshoots  and  in- 
terests, in  arresting  the  progress  of  allegory  and  abstraction  on  the 
stage,  furthered  the  growth  of  dramatic  characterization. 

Generically  a  morality  is  a  play  enforcing  a  moral  truth  by 
means  of  characters  which  are  personified  abstractions — figures  rep- 

*  Historjr  of  English  Dramatic  Literature.    Vol.  1,  p.  70. 


122 

resenting  virtues  and  vices,  qualities  of  the  human  mind,  or  abstract 
conceptions  in  general.  *  The  allegorical  tendency  prevalent  in 
every  department  of  literature  all  through  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
particularly  owing  to  such  widely  popular  works  as  the  Visio  con- 
cerning Piers  Plowman,  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  and  the  Confessio 
Amantis,  contemporaneous  with  the  growth  of  the  Moralities  in 
England,  made  it  inevitable  that  the  stage  should  escape  the  spirit 
of  the  times.  Mr.  Chambers  sees  intimations  of  the  moral  plays  of 
the  fourteenth  century  during  the  Liturgical  period,  and  to  ground 
his  claim  he  refers  to  the  twelfth-century  Latin  play  of  Antichristus, 
whose  whole  content  in  essence  may  be  called  allegorical,  possessing 
at  this  early  date  such  distinctively  allegorical  characters  as  Ecclesia, 
Synagogue,  Gentilitas,  Misericordia,  Heresis,  and  Ypocrisis.  t 
Ward  also  is  of  the  same  opinion.  He  condemns  as  ''a  fallacy"  the 
supposition  that  would  have  the  Moralities  nothing  but  the  out- 
growth of  the  Mysteries,  a  mere  literary  expansion  of  the  alle- 
gorical figures  exhibited  in  those  pageants  (in  the  narrower  sense 
of  the  term,  as  Wart  on  and  Collier  would  have  it)  which  constituted 
the  chief  popular  attraction  of  the  religious  and  other  processions 
of  the  Middle  Ages."  Ten  Brink,  Jusserand  and  Courthope  agree 
in  referring  the  origin  of  the  moralities  to  the  same  spirit  that  in- 
troduced allegory  into  the  current  religious  literature  and  court- 
poetry — the  effort  to  illustrate  moral  doctrines  and  abstract  ideas  in 
bodily  form,  t 

When  the  distinction  between  the  earlier  and  later  Moralities 
is  borne  in  mind  one  can  determine  in  a  general  way  what  were  the 
influencing  agencies  which  operated  in  either  set.  There  are  very 
positive  differences  both  in  the  matter  and  the  manner  of  treatment 
between  the  earliest  moral  plays  and  those  which  in  point  of  time 
at  least,  stood  nearest  to  the  perfection  of  the  species.  It  will  not 
be  questioned  that  in  the  early  Moralities  the  allegorical  and  purely 
symbolical  element  predominated  to  such  a  degree  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  eHminate  it  without  the  loss  of  an  essential  constituent 
of  the  play.  It  was  the  inseparable  shadow  of  their  substance.  The 
simple  frame  or  plot  used  in  allegory  which,  to  be  worked  out  con- 
sistently, necessitated  special  conventions  in  respect  to  the  choice  and 
use  of  actors  that  were  in  keeping  with  its  nature.     A  moral  play 

*  Ward,  A.  History  of  Dram.  Lit".  Vol.  I,  p.   108. 

t  Chambers,  The  Mediaeval  Stage,  Vol.  II,  p.  62,  151-152. 

$  Jusserand,  Le  Theatre  en  Angleterre,  p.  320. 


123 

was  like  a  Mid-summer  Night's  Dream,  the  conception  and  process 
dealt  immediately  with  shadows  of  things,  not  with  things  in  the 
manner  that  we  know,  see  and  feel  them.  These  shadowy  actors 
were  real  as  long  as  one  shut  his  eyes  and  dreamt,  but  the  moment 
he  awoke  and  would  touch  and  see,  the  caste  for  the  greater  number 
vanished.  "It  was  only  necessary,"  says  Ten  Brink,  "to  take  ser- 
iously the  personification  and  figures  of  speech,  and  to  carry  them 
out  consistently  in  order  to  complete  the  anthropomorphism."  * 

The  early  Moralities,  then,  could  not  be  dissociated  from  their 
allegorical  setting,  and  seem  to  reflect  more  the  spirit  of  the  Liturgic 
than  that  of  the  Cyclic  drama.  So  far  as  the  stage  has  given  ex- 
pression to  Mediaeval  life,  one  would  find,  perhaps,  the  truest 
mirror  of  the  times  in  the  Liturgical  and  early  Moral  plays.  It 
strikes  me  as  much  to  the  purpose  here  in  giving  some  general  idea 
of  the  characters  and  movements  in  this  earlier  variety  of  Moral 
Play  that  which  M.  Jusserand  says  in  speaking  of  physical  types  in 
the  Middle  Ages  as  they  are  seen  in  the  remains  of  the  plastic  arts." 
"(Les)  princes  et  gens  du  peuple  ont  des  corps  osseux  et  anguleux, 
au  geste  brusque,  passablement  brutal,  et  dans  Tesprit  desquels  il 
est  difficile  de  croire  que  des  mots  comme,  grace,  distinction,  noblesse 
de  manieres  aient  un  sens  precis  ou  meme  quelconque.  Ce  qu'on 
trouve  dans  la  realite,  au  Moyen-Age,  des  choses  que  designent  ces 
mots,  paraient  plus  comme  expressions  d'aspirations  vagues  vers  un 
ideal  supreme,  a  peine  entrevu,  que  comme  image  de  beaute  pleines, 
contemplee  habituellment  et  en  face."  t 

Something  analogous  to  the  transition  from  the  Liturgic  to  the 
Cyclic  drama  took  place  between  the  earlier  and  later  plays  of  the 
Moral  type.  In  the  Moralities,  however,  this  evolution  was  prin- 
cipally intrinsic,  a  growth  from  the  abstract  and  general  to  the  con- 
crete and  personal  to  the  presentation  of  common  life  and  manners ; 
whereas  the  transition  of  the  stage  from  the  sanctuary  to  the  fair- 
grounds wrought  also  notable  inner  modifications,  inevitable  in 
the  process  of  elaboration  that  took  place,  but  this  change  was 
mainly  a  formal  one.  The  importance  attached  to  allegory  (in- 
cluding the  moral  lesson)  in  the  respective  plays  of  either  period, 
affords  a  common  basis  for  a  distinction  between  the  earlier  and 
later  Moralities.  In  the  later  Moral  plays  the  allegory  had  not  been 
nearly  so  indispensable  as  in  the  earlier  compositions  of  the  species. 


*  English  Literature,  Vol.  I,  297-298. 

t  Le  Theatre  en  Angleterre,  etc.,  pp.  331-332. 


124 

For  the  most  part  it  had  direct  bearing  only  on  the  plot ;  the  char- 
acters were  Httle  affected  by  the  allegorical  surroundings  in  which 
they  moved.  They  continued  in  many  instances  to  be  known  by 
the  familiar  names,  such  as  Avarice,  Sensual,  Suggestion,  Hy- 
pocrisy, Satan,  Tyranny,  Spirit  and  Conscience.  But  these  resem- 
blances were  only  nominal.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  in  the' 
course  of  development  these  abstractions  took  on  flesh  and  blood, 
the  qualities  and  manners  of  men,  with  human  interests  and  evident 
personal  motives  back  of  their  conduct.  They  became  capable  of  a 
variety  of  action  and  their  names  signified  only  a  predominant  fea- 
ture of  their  characters,  not,  as  in  the  early  Moral  plays,  their  sole 
activity. 

The  titles  just  given  common  to  the  very  first  castes,  are  taken 
from  the  Conflict  of  Conscience,  a  Morality  printed  in  1581,  a  date 
which  probably  marks  the  closing  days  of  the  Moral  plays  as  such. 
The  play  is  purely  controversial.  It  is  particularly  interesting,  apart 
from  its  indication  of  allegorical  usage  in  the  drama,  as  here  for  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  religious  stage  we  meet  a  hero  taken 
from  contemporary  life.  Francis  Spiera,  the  Philologus  of  the 
Moral,  was  an  Italian  lawyer  who  "for  fear  of  loss  of  life  and 
worldly  goods  forsook  the  truth  of  God's  Gospel."  Having  entered 
into  himself  after  his  apostasy  from  Galvanism,  he  was  so  smitten 
with  remorse  that  in  despair  of  salvation  he  committed  suicide. 
This  "most  lamentable  example  of  the  doleful  desperation  of  a 
miserable  worldlinge"  affording  the  teachers  of  the  New  Learning 
an  apt  illustration  to  point  their  discourses,  very  soon  became  widely 
known  in  England.  The  thin  veil  of  allegory  which  the  playwright, 
Nathaniell  Woodes,  minister  in  Norwich,  threw  over  his  "comedie," 
barely  hid  the  reality.  The  prologue  gives  the  author's  view  of  the 
function  of  allegory  in  the  drama  after  the  following : 

And  here  our  author  thought  it  meet  the  true  name  to  omit, 

And  at  this  time  imagine  him  Philogogus  to  be: 

First  for  because  a  comedy  will  hardly  him  permit 

The  vices  of  one  private  man  to  touch  particularly: 

Again  now  shall  it  stir  them  more,  who  shall  it  hear  or  see; 

For  if  this  worldling  had  been  named,  we  would  straight  deem  in  mind, 

That  all  by  him  then  spoken  well,  ourselves  we  would  not  find. 

But  sith  philogogus  is  nought  but  one  that  loves  to  talk, 

And  common  (commune)  of  the  Word  of  God,  but  hath  no  further  care. 

According  as  he  teacheth  them  in  God's  fear  for  to  walk, 

If  that  we  practise  this  indeed,  Philologi  we  are: 

And  so  by  his  deserved  fault  we  may  in  time  beware, 


125 

Now  if,  as  author  first  it  meant,  you  hear  it  with  this  gain, 
In  good  behalf  he  will  esteem  that  he  bestowed  his  pain. 

To  this  extent  the  stage  had  emancipated  itself  from  the  dominion 
of  the  allegory  even  within  the  life-time  of  the  Morality  strictly  so- 
called.  Lusty  Juventus,  written  about  1550,  New  Custom,  printed 
in  1573,  Hicke  Scorner,  Like  Will  to  Like,  in  1568,  The  Three 
Lords  of  London  in  1584,  would  show  the  gradual  attenuation  of 
the  allegorical  element.  Indeed,  the  Disobedient  Child,  printed  in 
1560,  though  in  spirit  a  Moral,  retains,  however,  none  of  the  ab- 
stract characters.  But  at  this  time  Bale  and  Lyndsay  had  written, 
and  John  Heywood  was  advanced  in  years. 

This  much  in  general.  In  the  prologue  to  the  Castle  of  Perse- 
verance, the  first  of  the  three  Macro  Moralities,  which  are  the 
earliest  extant  plays  of  the  species,  one  will  find  the  main  argument 
underlying  all  plays  of  the  Moral  type,  and  incidentally  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  nature  and  purpose  of  allegory  in  reference  to  construc- 
tion and  characters  as  conceived  by  the  playwright  at  the  inception 
of  the  Morality  on  the  English  stage. 

The  cause  of  our  comynge  you  to  declare 

Everyman  in  hymself  for  soth  he  it  may  fynde, 

Whou  mankynde  into  this  world  bom  is  ful  bare 

And  bare  shal  beryed  be  at  the  last  ende; 

God  hym  yevyth  two  aungel  ful  yep  and  ful  yare. 

The  goode  aungel  and  the  badde  to  hym  for  to  lende; 

The  goode  techyth  hym  goodnesse,  the  badde  synne  and  sare, 

Whanne  the  ton  hath  the  victory  the  tother  goth  behende. 

Be  skyll. 
The  goode  aungel  covetyth  evermore  man's  salvacion, 
and  the  badde  bysyteth  hym  evere  to  hys  damnacioun, 
And  God  hath  gevyn  man  fre  arbitracion 
Whether  he  wyl  him  (self)   save  hy(s  soul?).  * 

Throughout  no  less  than  3,500  lines  the  argument  here  set  forth 
is  worded  out  with  all  the  nakedness  and  earnestness  in  which  it  is 
stated.  On  inspection  it  will  be  manifest  that  the  central  idea  of 
the  Castle  of  Perseverance  is  very  nearly  related  to  the  motive  which 
gave  dramatic  unity  in  some  sort  to  the  Cycles.  In  both  the  con-  I 
flict  is  between  Good  and  Evil,  and  the  issue  at  stake  is  the  soul  of  / 
man.  The  story  of  Creation,  Fall  and  Redemption  was  wrought 
into  dramatic  form  by  the  preceding  playwrights.  Deus  was  shown 
in  a  most  attractive  manner,  with  attributes  by  nature  benevolently 
iriclined.     He  was  solicitous  for  the  highest  good  of  his  friends, 

*  Pollard  A.  W.  English  Miracle  Plays  p.  xlv. 


126 

and,  as  if  one  of  them,  He  enjoyed  their  company  and  felt  happy 
in  their  happiness.  His  undisturbed  reign  while  it  lasted,  was  a 
millenium  of  delights  for  his  subjects.  This  is  the  beautiful  picture 
which  the  action  of  the  first  pageant  suggests.  The  Fall  of  the 
Angels  was  the  birth  of  Evil  and  the  beginning  of  the  conflict  be- 
tween the  divided  powers.  Milton's  great  Cycle  was  alone  capable 
of  giving  adequate  expression  to  this  high  argument.  Ten  cen- 
turies before  Milton's  day  Caedmon  and  Cynewulf  felt  the  inspira- 
tion of  this  same  theme.  Three  hundred  years  prior  to  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama,  it  was  the  concrete  presentation  of  this  historical 
struggle  which  supplied  the  cohesive  qualities  and  dramatic  interest 
in  the  Mediaeval  cycles. 

In  a  less  broad  scale  in  the  Moral  play  there  was  a  similar 
conflict  waged.  The  two  Angels  fight  perseveringly  for  the  pos- 
session of  Mankind  whose  "fre  arbitracion"  keeps  the  issue  doubt- 
ful to  the  last.  The  dubious  nature  of  the  struggle  and  the  conse- 
quences of  surpassing  magnitude  resulting  from  each  decision  of 
the  hero  contributed  an  abiding  interest  to  the  action.  It  made  up 
for  what  the  drama  lost  in  setting  aside  real  persons  such  as  the 
Bible  furnished,  and  introducing  in  their  stead  typical  figures  im- 
personating abstractions  of  the  mind. 

By  its  very  constitution  the  caste  of  the  Moral  play  was  limited 
in  its  action.  The  author  seemed  to  have  grasped  the  subject  in 
its  entirety,  but  not  with  the  fulness  that  would  give  him  mastery 
over  its  details.  He  failed  to  embrace  the  significance  of  the  re- 
spective roles.  He  had  yet  to  learn  the  way  of  justly  apportioning 
the  parts  and  of  nicely  co-ordinating  the  several  activities.  The 
actor  presented  himself  in  a  formal  way  before  his  hearers  on  his 
first  appearance  in  the  play  and  thus  predetermined  the  range  of 
his  activity.  All  was  in  a  name.  It  ranked  the  bearer  in  one  of  two 
classes :  it  set  him  in  the  companyof  the  confirmed  evil-doers  or  it 
fixed  his  role  with  the  unchangeable  righteous.  There  was  no  ques- 
tion of  a  middle  course.  An  actor  was  good  or  evil  and  he  could 
not  help  himself.  Apparently  the  hero  alone  in  the  early  moralities 
enjoyed  freedom ;  all  the  rest  on  the  stage  were  as  their  respective 
names  signified — irresponsible  creatures,  indissolubly  wedded  to  the 
one  line  of  conduct  which  had  been  minutely  defined  at  the  begin- 
ning, commonly  by  the  actor  himself.  In  the  Castle  of  Perseverance, 
Mankind  was  the  only  human  person  in  the  play ;  his  part  was  dra- 
matic, he  alone  could  deliberate  and  choose,  elicit  sympathy  and  in- 


127 

terest  in  the  audience.  He  ceased  to  be  in  a  strict  sense  an  allegori- 
cal or  representative  figure,  in  so  far  as  this  would  imply  rigid 
fidelity  to  an  assumed  and  fixed  course  of  action.  The  hero  was  a 
component  of  defects  and  qualities,  he  felt  he  was  a  person  that  had 
responsibilities.  Modifying  moral  ingredients  mingled  with  the  good 
and  evil  in  him  to  a  degree  not  so  apparent  in  the  elemental  con- 
dition of  the  subordinate  players.  These  minor  characters  enjoyed 
such  large  immunity  from  the  ordinary  laws  which  govern  man*s 
conduct  that  they  could  teach  no  forcible  lesson  in  human  ethics.  * 
They  were  merely  facts  of  the  hero's  character  and  not  themselves 
persons,  centres  of  responsibility.  Their  great  value  was  in  this, 
that  they  pictured  to  the  auditor  in  a  sensible  manner  the  psychic 
activities  going  on  within  the  hero.  Every  figure  in  the  play  repre- 
sented, or  was  instrumental  in  bringing  to  life  some  definite  peculiar 
qality  of  the  leading  character.  What  was  fluent,  intuitive  and  tan- 
gible in  the  Liturgic  and  Cyclic  drama  became  incarnate  in  the 
Moralities.  The  presence  of  such  a  distinct  role  as  that  of  Con- 
science and  Free-Will  exemplified  clearly  the  organic  growth  in 
power  of  character-treatment.  The  existence  of  the  functional  ideas 
of  personality  and  responsibility  as  influencing  character  presenta- 
tion, need  no  longer  be  assumed.  The  metaphor  has  been  realized 
in  fact  by  the  moral  playwright.  He  furnished  a  body  to  these  two 
senses  which  were  present  and  had  operated  in  an  implicit  or  spir- 
itual way  in  the  earlier  species  of  the  drama,  t 

*  Symonds,  J.  A.,  The  Predecessors  of  Shakespeare,  p.  118. 

t  What  Newman  says  on  the  process  of  the  development  in  ideas  may  be 
applied  analogically  to  illustrate  to  some  extent  the  way  by  which  the 
morality  playwright  endeavored  to  realize  a  complete  dramatic  expression, 

"The  idea  which  represents  an  object  or  supposed  object  is  commen- 
surate with  the  sum  total  of  its  possible  aspects,  however  they  may  vary 
in  the  separate  consciousness  of  individuals,  and  in  proportion  to  the  variety 
of  aspects  under  which  it  presents  itself  to  various  minds  is  its  force  and 
depth  and  the  argument  for  its  reality.  Ordinarily  an  idea  is  not  brought 
home  to  the  intellect  except  through  this  variety;  like  bodily  substances, 
which  are  not  apprehended  under  the  clothing  of  their  properties  and 
results,  and  which  admit  of  being  walked  around  and  surveyed  on  all 
sides  and  in  different  perspectives,  and  in  contrary  lights,  in  evidence  of 
their  reality,  and,  views  of  a  material  object  may-  be  taken  from  points 
so  remote  or  so  opposed  that  they  seem  at  first  sight,  incompatible,  and 
especially  as  their  shadows  will  be  disproportionate,  or  even  monstrous, 
and  yet  all  these  anomolies  will  disappear  and  all  these  contricities  be 
adjusted  on  ascertaining  the  point  of  vision  or  the  surface  of  projection  in 
each  case;  so  also  all  the  aspects  of  an  idea  are  capable  of  coalition,  and 
of  resolution  into  the  object  to  which  it  belongs;  and  the  prima  facie  dis- 
similitude of  its  aspects  becomes,  when  explained,  an  argument  for  its 
substantiveness  and  integrity,  and  their  multiplicity  for  its  originality  and 
power".    (Development  of  Doctrine,  pp.  34-35.) 


128 

The  intention  in  this  on  the  part  of  the  author  of  the  Moral 
plays  to  emphasize  and  have  the  thought  more  dramatic  cannot  be 
mistaken.  To  realize  fully  his  idea  was  wholly  beyond  his  power, 
but  the  attempt  was  praiseworthy.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  that 
his  energies  worked  in  the  right  direction.  He  labored  to  give 
concrete  dramatic  expression  to  the  two  great  root  principles  of 
ethical  life,  jln  other  words  he  proposed  to  decompose  the  moral 
life  of  man,  to  single  out  his  mental  faculties  to  make  objective  the 
intellect,  will,  imagination,  memory,  etc.,  so  that  while  holding 
apart  their  several  activities  he  would  present  at  the  same  time  on 
the  undivided  individual  the  ethical  influences  resulting  from  the 
action  of  one  psychic  process  on  the  other,  its  reaction  and  the 
interaction  of  all  the  human  powers  in  eliciting  the  human  act. 
Such  an  undertaking  viewed  in  the  light  of  after  development  in 
power  of  character-presentation  was  along  the  right  line.  The  face 
value  of  the  moral  plays  as  finished  works  of  dramatic  literature  is 
unquestionably  little,  but  when  taken  as  evidences  of  characterizing 
power  the  moralities  acquire  a  very  positive  worth.  They  mark,  if 
not  the  birth  of  a  new  instinct,  at  least  a  realization  of  an  old  feeling 
in  things  dramatic. 

Take  as  illustrative  of  this  the  oldest  morality  extant — the 
Castle  of  Perseverance.  The  prevailing  idea  is  one  of  conflict  be- 
tween Good  and  Evil,  and  the  point  at  issue  being  the  soul  of  the 
hero.  Mankind,  who  is  the  representative  of  the  human  race.  The 
three  great  sources  or  agencies  of  evil  are  the  first  impersonations 
in  the  opening  scene.  Mundus,  Caro  and  Belyal  enlarge  on  their 
inexhaustible  capabilities  in  the  way  of  creating  the  moral  ruin  of 
Humanum  Genus.  The  three  are  of  one  mind  and  league  their 
respective  resources  toward  the  conquest  of  the  hero.  While  they 
are  speaking  Humanum  Genus  leaves  his  cradle  and  comes  on 
the  stage.  He  is  in  a  most  helpless  condition,  only  a  day  old  "ful 
feynt  and  febyl,  not  wedyr  to  gon  ne  to  lende."  He  speaks  four 
thirteen-line  stanzas,  graphically  setting  forth  with  amazing  insight 
and  prevision  the  general  wretchedness  of  his  present  and  future 
state,  and  the  immediate  dangers  which  threaten  him  at  the  hands 
of  the  three  malicious  veterans  that  stand  by  him  on  his  left.  A 
Bonus  Angelus  stands  on  his  right  and  warns  him  against  his 
enemies,  counselling  him  at  the  same  time  to  "fare  well  in  all 
thinge,  and  certes  thou  shalt  not  wante."  A  bad  angel  silences  the 
speaker  and  offers  the  hero  this  advice : 


129 


Cum  on  with  me,  stylle  as  ston: 
Whow  sone  thou   schalt  be  ryche,. 
And  thanne  thou  schalt  sen  a-non 
Thou  and  I  to  the  werld  sehul  goon, 

The  Good  Angel  calls  this  "folye"  on  these  grounds : 
Why  schuld  he  coveyt  werldes  goode, 
Syn  Criste  in  erthe  and  hys  meynye 
All  in  povert  here  thei  stode?. 

The  response  of  the  evil  angel  is  not  in  the  way  of  an  answering 
argument,  but  of  an  hortatory  appeal  to  the  hero  to  offer  allegiance 
to  Mundus  and  to  share  at  once  in  therights  and  privileges  of  a 
subject.  Humanum  Genus  is  divided  in  mind  and  yet  he  cannot 
remain  passive  nor  avail  himself  reasonably  of  both  counsels  since 
they  are  mutually  exclusive.  He  has  to  choose. 
"Whom  to  folwe  wetyn  I  ne  may: 

I  stonde  in  study e  and  gynne  to  rave, 

I  wolde  be  ryche  in  gret  aray, 

And  fayne  I  wolde  my  sowle  save. 
As  wynde  in  M^atyr  I  wave: 

Thou  woldst  be  to  the  werld  I  me  toke. 

And  he  wolde  that  I  it  forsoke, 

Now  so  God  me  helpe,  and  the  holy  boke, 

I  not  wyche  I  may  have." 

This  nine-line  stanza  is  perhaps  the  earliest  formal  statement  in 
English  of  that  which  constitutes  the  essence  of  the  drama — an 
inner  conflict  of  magnitude.  The  struggle  here  presented  is  fol- 
lowed out  on  the  strictest  lines.  There  is  no  question  of  the  unity 
of  the  Moralities.  The  simplicity  of  the  action  itself  and  the  fixed, 
invariable  bent  in  the  constitution  of  the  caste  made  any  swerving 
from  the  main  idea  impossible.  Only  Humanum  Genus  could 
change.  The  disadvantages  under  which  the  cyclic  dramatist 
labored  by  reason  of  the  unavoidable  familiarity  of  the  audience 
beforehand  with  his  story  and  persons  seemed  to  have  been  de- 
liberately created  by  the  moral  playwright  himself.  No  one  doubted 
the  necessary  attitude  of  Stultitia,  Voluptas,  or  Detraccio  toward 
the  hero  the  moment  he  heard  from  their  own  lips  their  respective 
names  and  properties,  any  more  than  he  could  have  hesitated  to 
predict  infallibly  the  after  activity  of  Abstinentia  Charitas  and 
Solicitudo  when  he  beheld  their  first  ingress  on  the  stage.  From 
the  point  of  view  of  technique  this  was  as  if  a  detective-story  writer 
would  insert  his  concluding  chapter  immediately  after  the  title  page. 
True  to  his  role,  with  instinctive  readiness  the  Angel  of  Evil 


130 

seizes  on  the  opportune  moment  while  the  hero  is  undecided  which 
advice  to  follow. 

"Cum  on,  man!   where  of  hast  thou  care? 
Go  we  to  the  werld,  I  rede  the,  blyve; 
For  there  thou  schalt  now  ryth  wel  fare. 
In  case  if  thou  thynke  for  thryve, 
No  lord  schal  be  the  lyche." 

Humanum  Genus  would  compromise.  He  is  strongly  influenced  by 
the  words  of  the  bad  angel  and  partly  consents  to  follow  his  counsel, 
but  he  feels  pained  at  the  remonstrance  of  the  angel  of  good  who 
deplores  that  he  should  have  made  the  slightest  concession  to  the 

evil  adviser. 

The  werld  is  wyckyd  and  ful  wod, 
And  thou  schalt  levyn  but  a  whyle, 
What  covytyst  thou  to  wynne? 
Man,  thynke  on  thyn  endynge  day, 
Whanne  thou  schalt  be  closyd  under  clay, 
And  if  thou  thenke  of  that  a-ray, 
Certes  thou   schalt  not  synne.* 

The  Malus  Angelus  perfectly  understands  what  is  taking  place  in 
the  mind  of  Humanum  Genus  and  feeling  it  impossible  to  refute  in 
a  direct  way  the  argument  of  the  good  angel,  he  waives  the  point 
by  an  important  remark,  and  paliates  the  doubts  agitating  the  hero 
by  proposing  a  compromise, — following  in  this  the  hint  given  by 


*  The  moral  lesson  taught  here  Calderon  makes  the  climax  of  the  auto 
"Los  Escantos  de  la  Culpa." 

Music  {enters).  Sin. 

VVould'st  thou,  man,  to  rapture  give  Who  is  this  whose  voice  breaketh 

Life's   young   hours   that   flower   and  Rudely  on  my  startled  ear? 

fly,  Man. 

Oh,   forget  that  thou  must   die!  'Tis  my  inner  voice  you  hear — 

And  but  think  that  thou  dost  live!  'Tis  my  understanding  speaketh; 

(A    sound   of   drums   and    voices  Him   my    answering   conscience   seek- 

typifying    Doom-day's    call    is    heard  eth. 

outside;     all — Music    and    the    Five  Sin. 

Senses,  Circe  and  Seven  Deadly  Sins  — Heed  him  not,  no  answer  give. 

— start  in  surprise).  Man. 

The  Understanding  and  Penance  Let  him  go! 

answer  within.  Sin. 

Sin   {to  Music)  Thou  goest  to  grieve. 

Cease    thy    song!    What    voice    doth  Sing    once    more    lest    Man    should 

strive  hear 

Thus  to  mar  our  joy  thereby?  That  mysterious  voice  severe. 

Understanding    {to   Ulysees)  Music. 

Valiant  soldier,  from  on  high,  Oh  remember  that  thou  must  live. 

Wouldst  thou  lasting  bliss  receive?  — (MacCarthy,     D.     F.,     The     Three 

Penance   {to  Nero)  Dramas  of  Calderon  with  the  Span- 

Oh,  forget  that  thou  must  live.  ish  Text,  p.  184.) 

Understanding 
And   remember  that  thou  must  die! 


131 


Humanum  Genus  himself  to  whom  just  now  nothing  could  be  more 
agreeable  than  a  middle  course. 

With  the  werld  thou  mayst  be  bold, 

Tyl  thou  be  sexty  ^vynter  odd; 

Wanne  thi  nose  waxit  cold. 

Thanne  mayst  thou  drawe  to  goode.f 
This  suggestion  is  welcomed.  After  some  hesitation  and  in  spite 
of  the  entreaties  and  "grisely  grones"  of  his  good  angel,  the  hero 
takes  the  decisive  step.  He  is  ushered  to  the  throne  on  which 
Mundus  is  seated  and  there  plights  unqualified  obedience  to  the 
monarch.  His  fealty  insures  to  him  all  the  pleasures  he  is  capable 
of  enjoying,  and  Mundus  himself  introduces  him  to  ''two  lovely 
ladies,"  Voluptas  and  Stulticia,  and  then  to  Detraccio,  who  becomes 
his  page,  and  later  to  Belyal  and  Caro.  Avaritia  finally  takes  the 
hero  to  the  Six  Capital  Sins — "the  devylys  chyldren,"  with  whom 
he  abides  till  close  on  his  fortieth  year. 

After  this  long  career  of  the  freest  dissoluteness  he  begins  to 
taste  "the  sowre  sweetenesse"  as  he  calls  it,  of  pleasure.  All  this 
while  the  Angel  of  Good  never  lost  interest  in  him,  and  now  when 
his  charge  is  growing  tired  of  companionship  with  the  "develys 
chyldren,"  the  long-suffering  angel  calls  to  his  help  Confessio  and 
Schrift  and  the  three  with  Penetencia  succeed  after  much  effort  in 
reclaiming  the  h^ro.  They  hurry  him  to  the  Castle  of  Perseverance 
(which  is  "strenger  thanne  any  in  Fraunce")  and  there  lodge  him 
out  of  reach  of  his  enemies.  Here  in  this  "precyous  port"  with 
Christ  his  "coumfort"  he  leads  a  "merry  Hfe"  in  company  with  the 
Seven  Virtues.  * 


t  Observe  how  Mediaeval-like  is  the  scene  in  Marlowe's  Faustus 
0,  Faustus,  lay  that  damned  book  aside, 
And  gaze  not  on  it,  lest  it  tempt  thy  soul, 
And  heap  God's  hea\'y  wrath  upon  thy  head! 
Read,  read  the  Scriptures — that  is  blasphemy. 
The  Evil  Angel  paraphrases  the  language  of  the  Tempter  of  Eden: 
Go  forward,  Faustus,  in  that  famous  art 
Wherein  all  Nature's  treasure  is  contained; 
Do  thou  on  earth  as  Jove  is  in  the  sky, 
Lord  and  commander  of  those  elements.      (Act  1,  Scene  1.) 
Good  Angel:     Sweet  Faustus,  think  of  heaven  and  heavenly  things. 
Evil  Angel:     No,  Faustus,  think  of  honour  and  of  wealth.' 

(Act  II,  Scene  I.) 
*  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  follow  the  action  further.  The  Castle  of 
Perseverance  has  yet  been  printed  only  in  part.  Mr.  Pollard  who  has 
promised  to  edit  the  manuscript  entire  for  the  Early  English  Text  Society, 
has  given  a  specimen  of  the  play  which  has  enabled  me  to  speak  of  it  this 
far.  To  him  and  to  Collier  I  am  indebted  in  the  main  for  what  follows. 
Cf.  A.  W.  Pollard,  'English  Miracle  Plays  and  Moralities,'  pp.  xlv  if;  and 
Collier,  'History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,'  pp.  279-287. 


132 

Detraccio  brings  the  news  of  Mankynd's  conversion  to  Caro, 
and  after  a  brief  counsel  they  report  what  has  happened  to  Mundus. 
Measures  are  taken  by  the  powers  of  evil  to  secure  Humanum 
Genus.  Belyl  after  he  has  abused  and  beaten  his  subjects,  the 
Seven  Deadly  Sins,  for  their  negligence  leads  them  to  besiege  the 
Castle  of  Perseverance.  Collier  quotes  the  spirited  address  of  the 
leader  to  his  followers  before  they  assault  the  Castle. 
"I  here  trumpys  trebelen  all  of  tene 

The  very  werld  walkyth  to  werre 

Sprede  my  penon  upon  a  prene. 

And  stryke  we  forthe  now  under  sterre. 

Schapyth  now  your  sheldys  shene 

Yone  skallyd  shouts  for  to  skerre — 

Buske  ye  nowe,  boys,  belyve, 

For  ever  I  stonde  in  mekyl  stryve, 

Whyle  Mankynde  is  in  clere  lyve." 

Pride  bears  the  banner,  Caro  rides  on  horseback  and  Quia 
flourishes  an  immense  lance.  Humanum  Genus  is  terrified  at  the 
onslaught  and  implores  "the  Duke  that  died  on  rood"  to  take  care 
of  his  soul.  A  shower  of  roses  flung  from  the  wall  drives  the  allied 
forces  of  Mundus,  Caro  and  Belyal  into  hopeless  flight.  The  effec- 
tive roses,  it  need  not  be  observed,  typified  the  Passion  of  Christ.  * 
Very  soon  afterward  (though  in  the  meantime  the  hero  has 
grown  hoary  and  feeble)  Mundus  engages  Avaritia  to  approach 
stealthily  to  the  Castle  walls  and  induce  Humanum  Genus  to  de- 
scend. Avaritia  plays  his  part  well  and  his  arguments  have  the 
desired  effect.  Humanum  Genus  descends  from  the  Castle,  re- 
marking, 

Certys  this  ye  wel  knowe 

It  is  good  whan  so  the  wynde  blowe, 

A  man  to  have  sumwhat  of  his  owe 

What  happe  so  ever  be  tyde. 

The  Virtues  who  do  their  utmost  to  keep  him  within  the  Castle  are 


*  In  Calderon's  Auto  "Los  Encantos   de  la  Culpa,"  Penetentia  lets   fall 
on  Man  a  bunch  of  flowers, 

all   dappled 
O'er  with  virtues  from  the  life-blood 
Of  a  Lamb,  whose  crimson  altar 
Was  a  tree's  unmeasured  hardness 
By   whose   mystic   aid   thou   may  est 
All  her   (Sin's)   poisoned     snares  down  trample 
Touch  them  with  but  this — that  moment 
Shall  they  lose  all  power  to  harm  thee — 
Take  it,  and  adieu! 
MaeCarthy,  D.  F.,  the  Three  Dramas  of  Calderon,  p.  175. 


133 

grieved  at  his  departure.  Largitas,  as  naturally  most  disconsolate 
of  all,  addresses  the  audience: 

*Now,  good  men  alle,  that  here  be 

Have  my  systers  excused  and  me, 

Thou  Mankynde  fro  this  Castle  flee! 

Humanum  Genus  receives  as  price  of  his  defection  a  thousand 
marks  from  Mundus.  Immediately  he  buries  the  money  in  the 
ground,  reserving  it  for  the  future.  Much  to  the  old  man's  sur- 
prise, Garcio  (a  boy)  representing  the  rising  generation,  lays  claim 
to  the  treasure  in  the  name  of  Mundus.  Humanum  Genus  pro- 
tests,— 

What  devyl!  thou  are  not  of  my  kyn, 
Thou  didyst  me  nevere  no  maner  good 
I  hadde  lever  sum  nyfte,  or  sum  cosyn, 
Or  sum  man  hadde  it  of  my  blod: — 

But  in  vain.  The  minion  of  Mundus  inherits  what  Avaritia  and 
Humanum  Genus  had  accumulated.  The  hero's  mind  turns  to  the 
happy  days  in  the  Castle,  and  this  crowns  his  sorrows.  Every 
thought  is  a  pang.  He  often  tasted  the  "soure  sweetenesse"  of 
pleasure's  cup,  but  now  they  are  the  dregs  he  has  to  drink.  The 
remorse  of  Philologus  and  the  terror  of  Everyman  seem  to  torture 
him,  as  abandoned  by  every  succor  he  sees  "drery  Death"  slowly 
approach.  Anima  cries  to  Misericordia  for  help,  but  Malus  An- 
gelus  is  beforehand  and  will  brook  no  delay.  He  seizes  the  de- 
crepit Humanum  Genus,  hoists  him  on  his  shoulder  and  sets  off 
with  him  to  the  infernal  regions,  bidding  the  audience  as  he  passes 

Have  good  day;  I  goo  to  helle! 
The  closing  act  takes  place  in  heaven.  Misericordia,  Pax,  Justitia 
and  Veritas  plead  the  cause  of  Humanum  Genus.  Miseri- 
cordia at  the  command  of  Deus,  who  presides  as  judge,  fetches 
Anima  from  hell.  After  a  process  conducted  largely  after  the 
manner  of  the  XI  Coventry  Pageant  and  the  Hegge  Play  on  the 
Salutation  and  Conception  in  which,  as  in  a  larger  scale  in  the 
French  Mystere  Du  Passion  of  Arnoul  and  Simon  Greban,  the 
Heavenly  Sisters,  the  Four  Great  Attributes  of  the  Eternal  Father 
plead  before  the  Holy  Trinity  the  feasibility  of  man's  salvation. 
In  the  Biblical  plays  Mercy  and  Peace  take  the  part  of  the  fallen 
race.  Justice  and  Truth  are  opposed  to  the  redemption  of  man. 
They  cannot  understand  how  they  will  exist  if  the  arguments  of 
their  sisters  prevail.  The  discussion  stands  two  and  two.  Man's 
fate  hangs  in  the  balance.     How  effect  a  decision?     Mercy  and 


134 

Peace  plead  earnestly  for  pity  and  grace,  but  Truth  urges  that 
there  can  be  no  amity  between  sin  and  law.  The  discussion  con- 
tinues with  some  warmth  till  Peace  brings  all  to  accord.  "Mercy 
and  Truth  have  met  each  other,  Justice  and  Peace  have  kissed." 
The  Sisters  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  find  a  sinless  man  that 
is  willing  to  give  his  life  for  the  salvation  of  all.  But  the  search  is 
in  vain;  no  such  man  can  be  found.  They  refer  the  whole  matter 
to  the  Council  of  the  Holy  Trinity.  God  the  Son  consents  to  under- 
take the  work  of  redemption,  the  Father  agrees,  and  the  Holy  Ghost 
promises  to  bring  all  to  a  happy  issue. 

Before  a  court  of  this  nature  the  soul  of  Humanum  Genus  is 
arraigned.  The  Sisters  take  sides  as  in  the  case  of  the  Mysteries, 
when  the  fate  of  the  human  race  was  at  stake,  and  here,  too,  the 
arguments  of  Misericordia  prevail.  Her  appeal  to  Christ's  passion 
procures  from  Pater  sedens  in  jiidicio  a  decision  in  favor  of  Hu- 
manum Genus.  Collier  gives  the  epilogue,  which  is  the  moral,  as 
spoken  by  the  Judge: 

All  men  example  here  at  me  take. 
To  mayntein  the  good  and  mendyn  here  mys. 
Thus  endyth  our  ganys: 
To    save   you   fro   synnynge, 
Evyr  at   the   begynnynge, 
Thnke  o  nyour  last  endynge. 
Te  Deum  Ladamus. 

This  in  merest  outline  is  the  structure  and  content  of  the  oldest 
Moral  Play  extant.  It  is  certainly  as  old  as  the  reign  of  Henry  VI. 
The  completeness  with  which  the  idea  is  treated  implies  the  exist- 
ence of  predecessors  in  the  same  kind.  Wycliff,  who  died  in  1384, 
refers  to  'The  Paternoster  in  Englysch  tunge,  as  men  seyen  in  the 
pley  of  York."  This  play  presumably  old  in  Wycliff's  time,  *'set 
forth"  the  goodness  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,"  and  was  so  received 
that  after  its  first  presentation  a  Guild,  which  in  1399  numbered 
over  a  hundred  members  and  their  wives,  was  formed  solely  for  the 
purpose  to  secure  its  regular  performance.  It  must  have  been  in 
the  line  of  the  Moralities,  for  in  it  "all  manner  of  vices  were  held 
up  to  scorn,  and  the  virtues  were  held  up  to  praise."  Another  play 
or  cycle  of  plays  akin  to  the  Moral  type  grew  out  of  the  Credo. 
This  play  or  series  of  scenes  was  of  great  length  and  was  played  at 
Lammastide;  but  nothing  more  in  the  way  of  details  concerning 
these  is  known.  Both  plays  or  cycles  antedate  the  Castle  of  Perse- 
verance which  itself  would  illustrate  a  clause  of  the  Pater  or  Credo. 


135 

Mundus  et  Infans,  a  play  written  probably  early  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  VII,  treats  the  same  broad  theme  as  that  which  formed 
the  subject  of  the  Castle  of  Perseverance.  The  piece  has  too  little 
action,  though  the  author  at  times  arranges  his  extensive  material 
with  much  dramatic  effectiveness.  The  structure  of  the  play,  how- 
ever, is  of  the  simplest  kind.  Just  as  in  the  preceding  Morality, 
Mundus  here  appears  in  the  opening  scene,  boasting  of  his  might 
in  a  true  Herodian  measure.  His  supremacy  is  such  on  all  sides 
that  he  is  "kynge  in  every  case."  "Me  thynketh  I  am  a  god  of 
grace,"  is  the  conclusion  he  comes  to  from  reflection  on  his  person 
and  power. 

Infans  enters  in  as  pitiful  condition  every  way  as  little  Hu- 
manum  Genus  appeared  in  the  earlier  play.  He  begs  the  audience 
to  look  at  him  and  see  how  "mankynde  doth  begynne."  After 
speaking  some  lines  on  his  lowly  origin  and  the  inconveniences  of 
poverty,  he  goes  to  the  "worlde,  some  comforte  of  him  for  to  crave." 
Mundus  receives  him  affably,  and  asks  him  his  name,  which  is 
Dalyaunce,  clothes  him  in  "garmentes  gaye,"  promises  him  plenty 
and  rechristens  him.  Wanton  is  now  the  name  which  he  is  to  bear 
till  he  is  fourteen  years  old.  Wanton  promises  on  his  part  the  most 
submissive  allegiance  to  the  "worthy  Emperour."  He  leaves  the 
throne  and  with  accents  of  triumph  addresses  the  audience — 

A   ha!      Wanton   is   my   name 
I  can  many  a  quayante  game: 
Lo,  my  toppe  I  dryne  in  same, — 
Se,   it  turneth   ronde! 
I  can  with  my  scorge  strycke 
My  felowe  upon  the  hede  hytte 
And  myghtly  from  hym  make  a  skyppe, 
And   blere   on   hym   my   tonge. 

He  can  cry,  bite  and  kick  and  "make  a  skyppe"  if  his  father  or 
mother  chides  him ;  he  can  dance,  whistle,  rob  a  sparrow's  nest  or 
an  orchard,  and  absent  himself  from  school. 

After  describing  the  "quaynte  games"  of  childhood,  as  reckoned 
from  the  age  of  reason  "tyll  xiiii  yere  be  come  and  gone,"  he  re- 
turns to  Mundus,  who  confers  on  him  a  new  name,  Love-lust  and 
Lyking.  He  comes  back  to  the  audience  and  tells  briefly  of  his  ex- 
perience as  before.  He  presents  himself  another  time  before 
Mundus,  who,  on  account  of  diligent  obedience  to  his  will,  bestows 
a  third  name  on  his  faithful  vassal.  Manhode  is  the  new  name, 
and  the  privileges  attached  to  this  title  are  far  more  numerous  than 


136 

to  either  of  the  preceding.  Manhode  is  specially  enjoined  to  wor- 
ship seven  kings  whose  characters  Mundus  outlines.  The  royal 
personages  to  whom  the  hero  swears  by  "Saynt  Thomas  of  Kent" 
that  he  will  serve  truly  "with  mayne  and  myght"  are  no  other  than 
the  Seven  Deadly  Sins.  Mundus  takes  occasion  of  the  ceremony 
to  address  the  audience  in  the  most  pompous  manner,  as  Pharoah 
or  Herod  might  have  done  in  the  Cycle  plays.  Manhode  adopts  his 
master's  style  of  speaking.  He  ingratiates  himself  to  the  audience 
in  this  manner: 

'Peas,  now  peas,  ye  felowes  all   aboute; 
Peas  now,  and  herken  to  my  sawes. 
For  I  am  a  lorde  both  stalworthy  and  stout, 

All  londes  are  ledde  by  my  lawes. 
Baron  was  never  borne  that  so  well  hym  bare, 

A  better  ne  a  bolder  nor  a  bryghter  of  ble; 
For  I  have  myght  and  mayne  ower  countrees  fare, 
And  Manhode  myghty  I  am  namyd  in  every  countre. 

He  continues  to  recount  his  travels  and  triumphs  as  a  conquering 
knight,  for  he  has  broken  breastplates  and  cracked  "many  a  kyng's 
crown." 

*I  have  done  harme  on  hedes  and  knyghts  have  I  kylt; 

And  many  a  lady  for  my  love  hath  said,  alas. 

At  this  point  Conscience  enters.  He  entreats  the  audience  to  join 
with  him  in  a  prayer  to  the  end  that  the  evil  one  be  set  "sharpely 
on  syde"  and  Christ  be  crowned  king.  Then  he  defines  himself  at 
length, — 

*Me  thynke  it  is  a  necessary  thynge 

For  yonge  and  olde,  both  ryche  and  pore, 
Poore  Conseyence  for  to  knowe. 

For  Conseyence  clere  it  is  my  name 
Conseyence  counselyth  both  hye  and  lowe, 

And  conseyence  comenly  bereth  grete  blame, — Blame? 
Ye,  and  often  tymes  set  in  shame.* 

He  goes  on  to  state  his  knowledge  of  the  secrets  of  the  heart,  "thay 
be  as  symple  as  thay  can,"  and  the  difficulties  he  meets  within  the 
exercise  of  his  office.  He  is  interrupted  by  Manhode,  who  imperti- 
nently asks, — 

'Say,  how  felowe,  who  gave  the  leve  this  way  to  go? 
What,  wenest  thou  I  dare  not  come  the  to? 

Say,  thou  harlot,  whyder  in  hast. 

After  some  impolite  altercation  they  com^  to  a  better  understanding. 
Conscience  remarking, 


137 

*Syr,  thought  the  Worlde  have  you  in  Manhode  brought. 
To  mantyne  maners  ye  were  never  taught: 
No,  Conseyence  clere  ye  know  ryght  nought. 
And  this  longeth  to  a  knyght. 
Manhode — Conseyence,  what  the  devyll,  man,  is  he? 
Conseyence — Syr,  a  techer  of  the  spyrytualete. 

Man. — Spyrytualete,  what  the  devyll  may  that  be? 
Con. — Syr,  all  that  be  leders  into  lyght. 

Man. — ^Lyght,  ye,  but  herke,  felowe,  yet!     Lyght  fain  wolde  I  see. 
Con. — Wyll  ye  so,  syr  knyght?    Than  do  after  me. 
Man. — Ye,  and  it  to  Prydes  pleasynge  be, 
I  wyll  take  thy  techynge. 

Conscience  warns  the  hero  to  beware  of  pride,  and  illustrates  his 
teaching  by  referring  to  the  pride  of  "Lucyfer  and  Kynge  Robert 
of  Cysell."  Manhode  is  not  at  all  pleased  with  Conscience's  open 
denunciation  of  "Kynge  Pryde,"  and  taunts  him  that  what  ever  he 
may  bring  against  Pride,  he  has  nothing  to  reprove  in  the  "Kynge 
Lechery."  Conscience  proves  that  Lechery  is  to  be  obeyed  not  a 
bit  more  than  Pride,  and  so  in  turn  convinces  Manhode  that  his 
worship  of  the  seven  kings  is  false  and  odious.  The  hero,  enraged 
at  first,  wishes  woe  to  the  day  Conscience  came  near  him,  but  ac- 
knowledges finally  that  the  "cunnynge"  of  the  mentor  is  "moche 
more"  than  his  own.  After  a  warning  to  shun  the  company  of  the 
seven  kings  and  an  instruction  on  the  Ten  Commandments,  Con- 
science enjoins  particularly  that  the  penitent  avoid  'Folye'  on  all 
occasions.  Manhode  promises  and  prays  to  be  told  'what  is  most 
necessary  for  man  in  every  tyme.'  (Conscience  repeats,  'beware 
of  Folye'  and  'always  thynke  on  the  endynge')  He  then  takes  his 
leave  of  the  hero. 

Manhode's  conversation  was  not  sincere;  he  will  not  'clene 
forsake  the  kynges  of  synne.'  He  will  follow  the  advice  of  Con- 
science in  part  and  in  part  obey  Mundus.  But,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, when  Folye,  who  is  the  seven  deadly  sins  personified,  comes 
on  the  stage,  the  hero,  after  weak  resistance,  takes  him  for  his 
servant.  Folye  fetches  him  a  'draught  of  drynke'  which,  he  assures 
the  audience,  will  prevail  on  Manhode  to  cast  away  Conscience. 
And  so  it  does.  Folye,  to  deceive  Conscience,  at  Manhode's  re- 
quest, changes  the  hero's  name  from  Manhode  to  Shame  and  then 
both  hero  and  servant  set  off  for  the  Tavern.  Here  his  career  is 
fully  in  keeping  with  his  name.  Conscience  begs  him  to  give  up 
his  wicked  life,  but  he  answers :  "Why,  frere,  what  the  devyll  hast 
fhou  to  do,  whyder  I  go  or  abyde,"    Conscience  takes  occasion  of 


138 

this  answer  to  illustrate  to  the  audience  'the  freylnes  of  Man- 
kynde/  He  then  goes  in  search  of  'his  borne  brother'  Persever- 
ance, who  comes  on  the  stage  and  after  much  pious  talk  goes  to 
reclaim  Shame. 

Shame,  who  henceforth  is  called  Age,  arrives,  old  and  broken. 
His  long  lament  which  recapitulates  his  eventful  career,  begins 
"Alas,  alas,  that  me  is  wo! 

My  lyfe,  my  lykyng  I  have  forlorne; 

My  rentes,  my  ryches,  it  is  all  ygo, 

Alas  the  daye  that  I  was  borne!" 

As  he  is  leaving  the  stage  'hymself  to  spyll,'  Perseverance 
enters  and  prevents  the  suicide.  Age  does  not  want  to  listen  at 
first,  but  is  induced  by  Perseverance  not  to  despair.  Then  follows 
the  instruction  on  'Contrycyon'  and  on  the  'fyve  thynges  nessary  to 
Wynne  hevyn.'  Age  'plightes'  sorrow  for  his  sins,  and  receives 
the  name  of  Repentance  on  accepting  the  twelve  articles  of  the 
Creed  and  the  Ten  Commandments.  The  moral  is  spoken  in  part 
by  the  hero  himself  and  is  completed  by  Perseverance. 

The  morality  'Everyman'  is  unquestionably  a  favorable  speci- 
man  of  the  entire  species,  and  illustrates  in  a  special  manner  the 
perfection  of  what  I  am  calling  the  earlier  or  allegorical  variety  of 
the  Moral  Play.  Ten  Brink  refers  the  subject  of  this  piece  to  a 
parable  of  Buddhist  origin,  viz.,  'Friendship's  Test  in  Time  of 
Need,'  which  became  known  to  the  Christian  nations  through  the 
legend  of  'Barlaam  and  Josaphat.'  *  The  theme  was  widely 
popular  and  a  long  series  of  adaptations  of  it  have  been  met  with 
in  the  Latin,  German  and  Dutch  —  from  which  last  source  the 
English  Everyman  was  derived.  The  moral  teaches  substantially 
what  we  have  learned  from  the  two  preceding  plays,  but  the  manner 
of  treatment,  it  is  significant  to  notice,  differs  much  from  either  of 
them.  In  the  Castle  of  Perseverance  and  in  Mundus  et  In  fans, 
the  writers  were  content  to  follow  the  example  of  the  Cycle  play- 
wrights, and  present  the  successive  incidents  of  the  hero's  exist- 
ence rather  than  choose  the  dramatic  points  of  his  life,  the  crisis  of 
his  career;  Everyman,  on  the  contrary,  has  the  action  confined  to 
a  single  event  of  the  greatest  moment,  and  only  inferentially  do  we 
get  to  know  the  antecedent  life  of  the  hero.  This  characteristic 
would  of  itself  give  the  play  a  marked  value  over  the  Morals 
we  have  seen.    It  was  quite  impossible  to  hope  for  any  measure  of 


History  of  English  Literature,  Vol  II.     Part  1.     Pp.  279  ff, 


139 

success  so  long  as  the  playwright  undertook  to  dramatize  the  whole 
life  of  the  hero — from  babyhood  to  old  age,  chronologically.  The 
effort  of  the  author  of  Mundus  et  Infans,  for  instance,  to  keep  in 
touch  with  life,  so  far  as  choosing  the  besetting  follies  of  each  suc- 
cessive period  in  his  hero's  career  is  concerned,  merits  to  be  noted 
as  an  intimation  of  better  work  in  copying  life  and  manners  on  the 
stage.  It  gives  promise  of  more  artistic  characterization;  but  in 
itself,  for  the  most  part,  it  is  an  altogether  too  oral  presentation  of 
nature.  Infans  and  Love-lust  and  Lyking  scarcely  did  more  than 
affirm  what  was  asked  in  the  Table  of  Sins  of  any  Mediaeval  Peni- 
tentiary. 

Everyman  shows  indeed,  close  affinity  to  the  cyclic  drama.  The 
very  opening  scene  itself  would  sufficiently  establish  the  author's 
indebtedness  to  the  technique  of  the  Biblical  playwright.  The  sub- 
ject of  the  piece  is  the  summoning  of  the  hero,  Everyman,  out  of 
the  world  by  Death.  There  is  not  the  slightest  deviation  from  this 
truly  dramatic  situation  all  through  the  scene.  The  subject  and 
moral  are  opened  in  a  brief  prologue  by  the  Messenger,  but  the 
action  proper  is  begun  in  heaven,  where  God,  looking  down  on  sin- 
ful earth,  perceives  the  degeneracy  of  mankind,  who,  the  more  the 
Almighty  forbears,  the  worse  becomes.  The  spectacle  rouses  the 
divine  indignation  and  God  summons  His  mighty  messenger  Dethe 
and  orders  him  to  bring  Everyman  without  delay  'before  the  hye 
Juge  Adonay.'  Dethe  obeys.  Everyman  now  appears  on  the  stage 
and  receives  the  summons  with  all  the  marks  of  confusion  and 
terror.  With  prayers  and  bribes  he  begs  the  summoner  'to  deferre 
this  mater  tyll  another  daye ;'  but  Dethe  assures  the  hero, 

'Everyman,  it  may  not  be  no  waye 
I  set  not  by  golde,  sylver  nor  rychesse 
Ne  by  pope,  emperour,  kynge,  duke  ne  prynces 
For,  and  I  wolde  receyve  gyftes  grete, 
All  the  worlde  I  myghte  gete; 
But  my  eustome  is  elene  contrary, 
I  gyve  the  no  respyte,  come  hens  and  not  tary.' 

However  a  brief  respite  is  accorded  in  which  Everyman  may 
prove  his  friends  to  see  whether  any  of  them  be  so  hardy  as  to 
accompany  him  on  the  'pylgrymage'  whence  there  is  no  return 
'till  the  day  of  dome.'  He  addresses  himself  in  a  most  pitiful 
manner  to  Felawshyp,  Kyndrede,  Cosin,  and  Goodes  or  Ryches,  and 
later  to  Beaute,  Strengthe,  Dyscrecyion  and  Fyve  Wittes,  but  none 
of  these  will  go  with  him  on  the  journey.     Each  successively  re- 


140 

nounces  and  forsakes  him.  The  conversation  that  passed  between 
Felawshyp  and  the  hero  is  typical  of  the  rest. 

Felawshyp. — Everyman,  good  morrow  be  this  daye, 

Syr  why  lokest  thou  so  pyteoiisly? 

If  any  tynge  be  amysse  I  pray  the  me  saye. 

That  I  may  helpe  to  remedy. 
Everyman. — Ye,  goode  Felawshype,  ye, 

I  am  in  grete  jeoparde. 
Fel. — My  true  friend  shew  me  your  mynde 

I  will  not  forsake  the  to  thy  lyves  ende. 

In  the  way  of  good  company. 
Everyman. — That  was  well  spoken  and  lovingly. 

Fel. — Syr,  I  must  needes  know  your  heavy nesse 

I  have  pyte  to  see  you  in  dystresse. 

If  ony  have  you  wronged  ye  shall  revenged  be 

Though  I  on  the  ground  be  slayne  for  the. 

Though  that  I  knowe  before  that  I  scholde  dye. 
Everyman. — Veryly,   Felawshype,  gramercy. 

Fel. — Tusshe,  by  thy  thanks  I  set  not  a  strawe, 

Shewe  me  your  grefe  and  saye  no  more. 

He  continues  to  protest  his  fidelity  through  some  lines  in  this 
fashion,  and  will  accompany  Everyman  even  to  hell  if  needs  be. 
When,  however,  the  hero  tells  him  the  message  of  Dethe,  Felaw- 
shyp forgets  the  assurances  which  he  has  so  heroically  pledged  and 
waives  an  answer;  but  when  he  hears  that  there  is  no  return  from 
the  'vyage,'  his  refusal  to  go  is  unconditional, 

"In  fayth  than  wyll  not  I  come  there." 
Everyman  laments  pitifully  that  the  comrade  with  whom  he  played 
and  sported  should  prove  so  faithless  in  time  of  need.  His  appeal 
to  his  other  bosom  friends  only  aggravates  his  disappointment.  In 
this  disconsolate  state,  abandoned  by  all  whom  he  most  regarded, 
he  has  recourse  to  a  distant  relative,  Good-dedes,  whom  he  finds 
lying  *colde  in  the  grounde' 

'Thy   synnes  hath   me   sore  bounde 

That  I  cannat  stere'. 
She  responds  to  his  entreaty  and  introduces  him  to  her  sister  Knowl- 
edge, who  leads  him  to  'holy  man'  Confession  from  whom  he  re- 
ceives the  precious  jewel  'called  penaunce,'  which  his  'garment  of 
Sorowe'  has  procured  for  him.  As  he  receives  the  last  Sacrament, 
Strength,  Beaute,  Dyscretyon  and  Fyve  Wittes  stand  round  him 
on  the  stage.  He  next  makes  his  will,  bequething  one-half  of  his 
possessions  to  charitable  purposes.  His  allotted  respite,  however, 
is  over  and  with  feebly  step,  he  begins  his  last  journey  to  the  grave. 


141 

Beaute,  Strengthe,  Dyscrecyon,  Fyve  Wyttes  join  in  the  pilgrimage, 
but  successively  as  the  procession  advances,  each,  despite  the  en- 
treaties of  the  hero,  begs  to  be  excused  from  proceding  farther. 
As  Beaute  catches  sight  of  the  grave  she  turns  back  and  .  bids 
'Adevve'  to  Everyman  who  begs  her  not  to  be  so  heartless  as  to 

leave. 

"What,   Beaute,   whyder  wyll  ye? 
Beaute  answers, — 

"Peas!      I  am  defe,  I  loke  not  behynde  me, 
Nat  and  thou  woldest  gyve  me  all  the  golde  in  thy  chest. 

Everyman  deplores  this  ingratitude  most  pathetically,  but  is  inter- 
rupted by  Strengthe,  who,  too,  wishes  him  farewell,  saying, 
"Ye  I  have  you  ferre  ynoughe  conveyed 

Ye  be   olde  ynoughe,   I   understande. 

Your  pylgrymage  to  take  on  hand. 

I  repent  me  that  I  hyder  came." 

As  Dyscrecyon  "wyll  after  Strengthe  begon,"  the  hero  begs  him  for 
the  love  of  the  Trinity  to  look  into  the  grave.  But  Dyscrecyon 
pays  no  heed  to  his  appeals  and  is  followed  by  Fyve  Wyttes  off  the 
stage.  As  Everyman  finds  himself  thus  forelom  on  the  very  brink 
of  the  grave,  he  exclaims, 

"0  Jesu  helper  all  hath  forsaken  me!" 
Good-dedes  answers, 

"Nay,  Everyman,  I  will  byde  with  the." 
Everyman's  face  lights  up  with  hope  as  his'  only  friend  descends 
with  him  into  the  grave.    The  hero's  repentance,  though  tardy,  was 
sincere,  for  heavenly  voices  (so  Knowlege  tells  the  audience)  chant 
his  requiem.    A  Doctour  speaks  the  lesson. 

Only  Mr.  Ben  Greet's  presentation  brings  out  the  character 
of  Everyman.  The  argument  is  at  such  odds  with  modern  popular 
tastes  that  the  success  which  attends  the  performance  of  the  play 
before  EngHsh  and  American  audiences  is  a  present  day  proof  of 
the  perennial  vitality  of  that  essential  dramatic  element  whose 
existence  in  the  pre-Elizabethan  drama  affords  a  basis  for  what  is 
said  in  this  Essay  in  reference  to  character-treatment.  In  no  play 
may  the  processes  of  the  early  dramatist  be  studied  at  nearer  view 
than  in  the  unfolding  of  the  intense  action  presented  in  Everyman. 
The  whole  scene  is  a  transcript  from  nature.  He  takes  hold  of  the 
situation  in  its  entirety  and  sets  forth  the  personality  of  the  hero 
with  a  psychological  insight  characteristic  of  few  dramatic  pieces 
of  this  date.     But  the  analysis,  which  so  accurately  reproduces  in 


142 

the  personifications,  the  sequence  of  phenomena  in  actual  life,  is  not 
peculiar  to  the  author  of  Everyman;  it  is  illustrative  of  what  one 
frequently  meets  with  in  the  work  of  the  mediaeval  playwright. 
His  aim  was  to  image  life  on  the  stage,  and  in  this  all  men  agree 
that  the  writer  of  Everyman  has  fairly  succeeded.  "The  whole 
pitiful  pathos  of  human  life  and  death  is  here  and  with  it  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  which — theological  controversies  apart — has 
most  enduringly  commended  itself  to  mankind.  What  wonder  that 
a  Morality  which  is  successful  in  bringing  these  things  before  the 
hearers  and  readers,  should  by  a  consensus  of  opinion  to  which  I 
know  of  no  exception,  be  regarded  as  the  flower  and  crown  of  the 
literary  species  to  which  it  belongs."  * 

The  cursory  notice  of  the  Castle  of  Perseverance,  Mundus  et 
Infans,  and  Everyman,  is  sufficient  to  show  the  progress  in  dra- 
matic form  which  the  morality  play  evinces  from  the  beginning. 
The  effort  to  emphasize  the  inner  processes  of  the  moral  agent  by 
personifying  the  virtues  and  vices,  mental  faculties  and  inclina- 
tions,— all  the  ethical  influences  which  determine  the  actions  of  the 
hero,  prepare  the  way  for  original  treatment  of  the  plot.  "Each  of 
the  moralities,"  says  Mr.  Courthope,  "treats  in  its  own  fashion  one 
fundamental  idea,  namely,  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil  in 
human  nature;  just  as  in  the  mysteries  different  dramatists  handled 
variously  the  story  of  the  Fall  and  Redemption  of  man."f  The 
main  idea  in  both  species  of  drama  is  the  same  but  the  constructive 
principles  involved  differ  widely  in  each.  In  the  Cycles  the  Bible 
and  Legend  furnished  the  framework  in  which  to  set  the  characters 
and  left  but  little  room  for  the  exercise  of  invention.  All  that  fell 
to  the  playwright  was  to  arrange  pre-existing  material  in  dramatic 
form.  In  developing  ideas  and  incidents  merely  suggested  by  the 
Sacred  Text  or  Apocryphal  writings  the  dramatist  in  these  acci- 
dents of  his  theme  gives  evidence  of  his  power  to  work  indepen- 
dently. In  bringing  the  historical  and  traditional  material  on  the 
stage  the  author  repeatedly  gives  proof  of  a  dramatic  sense  in  the 
choice  and  disposition  of  his  matter.  In  such  scenes  as  the  Fall  of 
the  Angels  in  the  several  cycles,  the  Slaying  of  Abel  by  Cain,  the 
Story  of  the  Ark,  the  Sacrifice  of  Abraham,  the  Deliverance  from 
Egypt,  Moses  and  Pharaoh,  Balaak  and  Balaam,  the  numerous  in- 
cidents relating  to  the  Nativity,  Joseph's  Jealousy,   Holy  Mary's 

*  Ward,  A.  W.,  History  of  Dramatic  Literature,  Vol.   I,  p.   124. 
t  W.  Courthope,  A.  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  II,  p.   331-378. 


143 

Detractors,  Mak,  The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents,  Herod,  Sir  Grym- 
bald  and  Sir  Launceler,  the  scenes  treating  of  the  Conspiracy  and 
Passion,  The  Casting  of  the  Die,  the  Marian  Plays  and  the  original 
handling  of  the  events  of  Doomsday  testify  to  the  playwright's 
ability  of  synthesizing  indifferent  material,  turning  it  into  dramatic 
form,  and  of  creating  when  need  be,  the  connecting  incident  between 
isolated  scenes. 

In  the  Moral  plays  the  dramatist  had  no  pre-existing  frame- 
work in  which  to  set  his  persons.  He  had  to  form  his  own  plot. 
He  was  no  longer  filling  in  an  apocryphal  story  or  giving  dramatic 
point  to  an  historical  record.  The  task  at  which  the  Moral  play- 
wright was  engaged  was  a  process  of  drawing  out  into  action  an 
idea,  an  ethical  precept  or  lesson.  His  was  a  creative  work.  In  all 
the  nakedness  of  infantine  art-form,  one  meets  with  here  a  grand 
conception  struggling  for  expression.  Marlowe  will  come  nearest 
in  compassing  it  while  retaining  the  idea  or  soul-struggle  in  its 
elemental  state.  Dr.  Faustus,  yearning  for  omniscience  on  a  stage 
occupied  by  good  and  evil  Angels,  by  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  in 
person,  and  Hell  in  view  with  its  "damned  souls  tossing  on  burning 
forks,"  bears  striking  resemblance  to  the  leading  characters  of  the 
Moralities.  Tamburlaine  the  Great,  ambitious  of  universal  con- 
quest and  Barabas  of  universal  wealth  are  for  the  most  part  'per- 
sonified vices  in  tragical  pursuit  of  unattainable  ideals.'  *  Mar- 
lowe— every  Elizabethan  for  that  matter — might  attach  a  moral 
lesson  to  his  play  after  the  formal  manner  of  the  earlier  play- 
wrights, t 

The  principles  involved  in  the  construction  of  the  morality 
species  of  drama  afforded  the  author  amplest  freedom  in  determin- 
ing the  nature  of  his  composition.  It  devolved  on  him  to  provide 
a  suitable  action  through  which  he  might  express  the  ethical  truth 
he  had  in  mind.  There  was  no  possibility  that  his  auditors  could 
have  predicted  the  action  had  he  so  desired,  any  more  than  they 
could  foretell  events  and  consequences  in  actual  life.  The  hero  was 
in  conflict  from  start  to  finish,  at  any  time  capable  of  losing  his 
vantage  ground  or  being  wholly  overcome,  but  always  perfectly 
conscious  that  the  issue  would  be  as  he  deliberately  chose.  This 
was  all  that  was  fixed.  The  manner  of  conducting  the  struggle  was 
open  to  the  playwright-motive,  situation,  incident,  intrigue,  all  was 

*  Sidney  Lee,  'The  Cambridge  Modern  History,'  Vol.  III.,  p.  374. 

t  W.  Boyd  Carpenter,  'The  Religious  Spirit  in  the  Poets,'  pp.  81-102. 


144 

at  his  disposal.  How,  at  an  early  date  he  availed  himself  of  these 
advantages  to  reach  his  great  end,  namely,  the  presentation  of  the 
hero  in  action,  reasoning,  willing  and  feeling,  may  be  seen  from  an 
analysis  of  Mankynd,  the  third  of  the  Macro  Moralities. 

Though  no  fast  line  of  demarkation  can  be  drawn  between  the 
varieties  of  the  species,  I  think,  however,  Mankynde  may  be  re- 
garded as  a  transition  drama  between  the  earlier  and  later  morali- 
ties. *  It  falls  far  short  of  the  simple  solemnity,  the  sustained 
force  and  intrinsic  dramatic  quality  of  Everyman ;  but  it  stands  in 
advance  of  any  of  the  earlier  Moralities  in  the  arrangement  of  what 
may  be  called  the  plot.  The  structure  of  the  Castle  of  Perseverance, 
apart  from  its  impossible  scope,  is  extremely  artless.  Humanum 
Genus  grows  into  evil  and  forsakes  his  bad  habits  as  easily  as  he 
contracted  them.  It  is  true  the  remorse  which  the  voice  of  his 
good  angel  aroused  at  the  beginning,  abides  with  him  amid  the 
pleasures  of  the  Tavern  and  does  not  leave  him  till  he  has  found 
safety  in  the  Castle.  This  conflict  within  the  breast  of  the  hero — 
the  *sowre  swe^tnesse'  of  pleasure,  as  he  expresses  it — was,  in  an 
elementary  way,  dramatic.  But  Humanum  Genus  so  deliberately 
embraces  vice  in  preference  to  virtue  that  the  logical  process  by 
which  he  feels  his  way  makes  him  unworthy  of  sympathy.  He  is 
never  surprised  into  wrong  doing  and  he  does  not  turn  to  'goddys 
servyse'  till  he  has  tired  of  'faryn  wel  at  mete  and  mele.'  His 
temptation  to  leave  the  Castle  has  been  so  manifestly  overt  that  his 
consent  to  the  pleadings  of  Avaritia  deserves  a  genuinely  dramatic 
catastrophe  which  no  one,  save  Mercy  from  Heaven,  would  feel 
obliged  to  prevent. 

In  Mundus  et  Infans  the  line  of  least  resistance  is  followed  in 
the  construction  of  the  framework.  Indeed,  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conduct  the  action  in  a  more  obvious  and  less  artistic  and  effec- 
tive manner.  Conscience  or  opposition,  does  not  enter  till  the  hero 
is  dubbed  'knyght,'  and  even  then  the  half-hearted  conversion  of 
Manhode  has  not  produced  the  abiding  deep-felt  remorse  which 
Humanum  Genus  experienced  as  the  result  of  his  fall.  There  is  no 
depth  in  the  moral  nature  of  Manhode,  he  has  no  sense  of  responsi- 
to  decisive  Conscience,  from  Manhode  to  Shane.    Yet  there  is  more 


*  Mr.  Pollard  finds  the  leading  varieties  of  the  Mediaeval  drama  resumed 
in  the  play,  St.  Mary  Magdalene  (e.  1480-90).  Not  only  is  every  type  of 
drama  familiar  to  the  stage  in  England  represented  here,  but  scenes  reminis- 
cent of  the  French  miracle  are  introduced  into  this  motley  composition  which 
is  more  descriptive  than  dramatic. 


145 

bility  as  is  clear  from  his  easy  consent  to  'folowe'  Follye  who  gra- 
ciously grants  the  hero's  sole  request,  viz.,  that  his  name  be  changed 
human  interest  in  the  closing  scenes  of  this  Moral  than  in  the 
corresponding  parts  in  the  Castle  of  Perseverance.  Age  is  more 
deserving  of  sympathy  than  old  Humanum  Genus.  The  extreme 
spiritual  ignorance,  as  is  quite  apparent  from  the  long  explanations 
of  Perseverance  on  essentials  of  salvation,  wins  the  affection  of  the 
audience  for  dying  Age. 

Both  these  Moralities  aimed  at  giving  a  detailed  account  of 
the  whole  course  of  human  existence.  Their  efforts  to  present  the 
life  of  man  in  its  entirety  after  this  fashion  were  necessarily  doomed 
to  defeat.  Concentrated  attention  on  the  crucial  point  of  the  hero's 
career  can  alone  succeed  to  show  with  dramatic  effectiveness  the 
one  or  two  ideas  which  influence  his  moral  life.  Only  with  this 
emphasis  and  exclusiveness  as  the  leading  English  dramatists  have 
proved,  is  it  possible  to  portray  the  complex  activities  that  make  up 
character-life. 

Quite  the  opposite  pole  is  reached  in  Everyman.  The  action 
here  is  so  contracted  that  there  is  no  plot,  properly  speaking;  the 
whole  is  rather  a  scene  or  incident  in  a  play  than  a  play  itself.  In 
Mankynde  there  is  not  the  breadth  of  action  of  the  Castle  of  Perse- 
verance or  Mundus  et  Infans;  neither,  on  the  other  hand,  is  it 
reduced  to  the  episodic  proportion  of  Everyman.  There  is  evident 
pains  taken  in  the  structure  of  this  transition  moral  which  from  the 
point  of  view  of  dramatic  form,  marks  an  advance  beyond  what  is 
reached  in  the  earlier  play  of  the  species.  Progress  in  form  im- 
plies a  more  concrete  presentation  of  the  theme  which  in  turn  in- 
volves more  human  traits,  or  at  least,  more  individuality  in  the 
caste.  There  is  an  effort  in  Mankynde  to  bring  the  hero  in  touch 
with  nature  and  to  provide  a  reasonable  motive  for  his  actions. 
The  other  actors,  it  will  be  seen,  are  supposed  to  represent  typical 
heroes  in  their  very  low  social  state.  The  character  of  Mercy,  how- 
ever, is  fashioned  after  the  usual  manner. 

The  nature  of  Mankynde,  as  indeed  to  a  great  extent  that  of 
most  moral  plays,  may  be  inferred  from  the  names  of  the  caste. 
"Mankynde  Mercy 

New  Gyse  Now-A-Days 

Nought  Tityvillus  Myscheff 

Mercy,  who  is  apparently  dressed  in  the  robe  of  a  friar,  is  alone  in 
the  play  to  sustain  the  cause  of  righteousness.     New  Gyse,  Now-a- 


146 

Days  and  Nought,  veritable  enfants  sans  soiicis,  stand  for  worldly 
temptations  as  Mercy  interprets  (1.  878).  *  Tity villus,  who  pos- 
sesses the  preternatural  power  of  rendering  himself  invisible, 
'propyrlly  sygnyfieth  the  fend  of  helle.'  t  Myschefif  is  a  sort  of  go 
between.  There  is  much  more  action  in  this  play  than  in  the  Castle 
of  Perseverance,  or  in  the  other  moralities  this  far  noted. 

In  the  opening  scene  the  whole  future  action  is  made  known. 
There  is  a  certain  discrimination  exercised  in  the  presentation  of 
the  matter  which  contributes  much  to  precision  of  outline  in  the 
treatment  of  the  characters.  Mercy,  the  first  speaker,  exposes  some- 
what diffusively,  though  in  easy  verses,  the  duty  and  advantage  of 
leading  a  righteous  life,  the  means  of  so  doing  and  the  obstacles  to 
be  met  with  by  one  who  espouses  the  cause  of  virtue;  and  in  a 
closing  quatrain  he  announces  the  nature  of  the  sanction  which 
gives  his  word  and  the  subsequent  action  genuine  dramatic  value. 
Mercy  does  not  speak  abstractly  nor  urge  in  a  vague  way  submis- 
sion to  impersonal  laws.  "The  very  fownder  and  begynner  of  ower 
fyrst  creacion"  who  sent  "amonge  us,  synfull  wrechys,  hys  own 
son  to  be  torne  and  crucyfeyde"  is  represented  as  one  personally 
interested  in  the  salvation  of  Mankynde.  Mercy  is  his  vicar  and 
bears  toward  the  hero  such  anxious  solicitude  as  to  make  it  needful 
to  ask  at  the  close  of  the  play  the  pardon  of  the  auditors  for  giving 
way  to  tearful  sentiment. 

My  mynde  ys  dyspersyede,  my  body  trymmelyth  as  the  aspen  leflfe; 

The  terys  xuld  trekyll  down  by  my  chekys,  were  not  yower  reuerence 

Yt  were  to  me  solace — the  cruell  vystacyon  of  deth. 

Opposed  to  this  is  the  'mortall  enmye' — again  no  abstract  or  indif- 
ferent principle — who,  so  far  as  the  procuring  of  man's  ruin  is  con- 
cerned, is  possessed  with  the  power  that  equals  the  creator's,  and 
which  is  here,  as  invariably  throughout  the  religious  drama,  far 
more  effectively  applied.  The  good  angels  cannot  compare  dra- 
matically with  those  of  the  enemy.  They  commonly  speak  most 
generally  and  but  little  to  the  purpose  (their  'body  ys  full  of  Eng- 
lysch  Laten'  as  New  Gyse  aptly  remarks)  ;  whereas  the  evil  agents 
are  not  given  to  rant  without  a  very  evident  motive;  they  speak 
little  and  do  much  and  their  words  are  always  apposite,  urging  to 
immediate  action  and  present  results. 


*  J.  M.  Manly,  Specimens  of  the  Pre-Shakespearean  Drama,  Vol.  I,  315-352. 

t  Collier,  H.*  E.  D.  P.,  Vol.  II,  pp.  222-223,  has  interesting  data  on 
the  etymology  of  the  name  Tity  villus  (totus  vilis)  and  on  the  evolution  of 
the  partly  elfish  and  partly  human  role  that  he  plays  in  Mediaeval  literature. 


147 

Mercy  ends  his  long-  discourse  with  an  exhortation  to  the  audi- 
ence to  reflect  on  the  account  Mankynde  will  have  to  render  of  his 
words  and  works  of  Doomsday. 

"The  corne  xall  be  salvyde,  the  chaffe  xall  be  brente 
I  besech  you  hertyly,  haue  this  premedytacyon." 

As  Mercy  pronounces  these  words,  whose  sound  abides  as  deterrent 
echoes  in  the  ears  of  Mankynde,  Myscheff  enters  and  improvises  a 
parody  on  the  parable  referred  to  by  Mercy. 

"I  besech  vow  hertyly,  leue  yower  caleiilacyoii, 

Leue  yower  chaffe,  leue  yower  corne,  leue  yower  dalyacyon. 

Yower  wytt  is  lytyll,  yower  hede  is  mekyll,  ye  are  full  of  predyeacyon. 
Mercy  remonstrates, 

"Why  come  ye  hyder,  brother?     Ye  were  not  dysyryde." 
But  he  holds  himself  altogether  indifferent  to  Mercy's  wishes,  and 
proceeds  to  give  his  interpretation  of  the  parable ; 

"Corn  seruit  bredibus,  chaff  horsibus,  straw  fryrbusque. 

Thys  is  as  moche  to  saye,  to  yower  leude  undyrstandynge. 

As  the  corn  xall  serue  to  brede  at  the  next  bakynge; 

Chaff  horsibus  &  reliquid 

Mercy  again  begs  him  to  desist.  But  no ;  he  continues  to  gibe  and 
cavil  till  at  length  his  companions.  Nought,  New  Gyse  and  Now- 
A-Days,  come  on  the  stage.  They  carry  on  the  roughest  species  of 
rusticity  and  horse-play.  Mercy's  reproofs  are  wasted  on  them; 
they  make  sport  of  him  and  beat  him,  take  off  his  habit  and  have 
him  join  in  their  dance.  This  Morality  shows  to  what  extremes  the 
early  playwrights  were  wont  to  go  in  their  efforts  to  be  realistic. 
Surely  no  picture  of  society  could  be  drawn  with  a  freer  hand  than 
that  which  this  scene  illustrates.  The  behavior  of  Nought,  New 
Gyse  and  Now-A-Days  represents  no  very  elevated  strata  of  human 
intercourse  and  is  no  doubt  a  caricature  of  inn-life  in  the  reign  of 
Henry  VI,  or  Edward  IV.  *  It  need  not  be  implied  that  the  author 
was  more  in  sympathy  or  better  conversant  with  the  manners  of 
the  lower  caste  than  with  those  on  a  higher  level  of  society.  It  had 
been  his  art  that  was  at  fault.  Contrast  was  the  principal,  not  to 
say  the  sole  law  of  dramatic  technique  which  he  knew ; — a  realistic 
presentation  being  rather  the  end  proposed  than  a  means  or  law 
governing  a  method.  The  playwright  here  effected  the  desired 
opposition  in  the  strict  ethical  teaching  of  Mercy  and  the  loose 
moral  practices  of  his  "undysyryde"  visitors. 

*  Cf.    Piers  the  Plowman  (Passus  V)  for  a  realistic  picture  of  a  London 
ale  shop. 


148 

As  New  Gyse,  Now-A-Days  and  Nought  leave  the  stage,  Mercy 
breathes  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  sets  to  prove  "by  reason"  to  the 
auditors  that  such  fellows  are  worse  than  beasts.  The  brutes  obey 
his  instincts,  but  these  sin  against  all  law. 

"Ther  joy  and  delyte  ys  in  derysyon 
Of  ther  owyn  Cryste  to  his  dyshonur." 
What  account  must. they  yield  to  the  "Justyce  of  all"  on  the  last 
day,  when  "for  euery  ydyll  worde  us  must  yelde  a  reson  ?" 

With  this  sad  reflection  he  closes,  and  is  on  the  point  of  leaving 
the  stage  when  the  hero  enters.  After  recommending  by  way  of  in- 
troduction the  "holl  congrygacyon"  to  the  mercy  of  God's  provi- 
dence, Mankynde  remarks  briefly  on  the  composition  of  man  in 
general  which  brings  him  to  the  very  heart  of  his  "lamentable 
story." 

"To  se  my  flesch  of  my  soull  to  haue  gouernance: 
Wher  the  goode-wyflF  is  master,  the  goode-man  may  be  sory.** 
He  resolves  to  seek  'gostly  solace'  in  his  distress.  Falling  on  his 
knees  at  Mercy's  feet  he  prays  for  counsel  to  strengthen  his  'onsted- 
fastnesse'  in  well-doing  and  to  be  his  shield  against  his  'gostly 
enemy'  that  is  ever  urging  him  to  sin.  Mercy  gives  him  the  desired 
comfort,  and  bids  him  have  courage :  'Vita  hominis  est  milicia  super 
terram.' 

"Oppresse  yower  gostly  enmy  &  be  Cryates  own  knyght, 
Be  neuer  a  cowarde  agayn  yower  aduersary. 
If  ye  wyll  be  crownyde,  ye  must  nedes  fyght 
Intende  well  &  God  wyll  be  yow  adiutory." 
He  further  advises  Mankynde  to  'dystempur  not'  his  brain  with 
either  good  ale  or  wine,  and  in  general  to  shun  all  excess :    'Mesure 
ys  treasure.'    The  horse  that  is  over-well  fed  will  disobey  the  rein, 
'and,  in  happe,  cast  his  master  in  the  myre.' 

At  this  New  Gyse,  back  of  the  scene,  interrupts  the  conversa- 
tion on  the  stage,  and  takes  his  cue  from  Mercy's  latest  remarjc : 
"Ye  say  trew,  sir;  ye  are  no  faytour! 
I  have  fete  my  wyflf  so  well  tyll  sche  ys  my  master; 
I  have  a  grett  wonde  on  my  hede;  lo!  &  thereon  leyth  a  plaster. 
Mankynde  asks  in  indignation  "wher  spekys  this  felow?    Wyll  he 
not  come  nere?"     Mercy  gravely    answers:     "All    to    sone,    my 
brother,  I  fere  me,  for  you,"  and  goes  on  to  explain  that  shortly 
New   Gyse,   Now-A-Days  and   Nought  will  come  to  tempt  him. 
After  some  brief  advise  and  words  of  encouragement,  Mercy  tells 
Mankynde  that  "Within  a  schorte  space  I  must  nedes  hens."    Now- 
A-Days  speaks  from  his  hiding  place : 


149 

"The  sonner  the  leuer,  &  that  be  ewyen  a-non! 
I  trow  yower  name  ys  do-lytyll,  ye  be  so  longe  fro  horn." 

I  trow  yower  name  ys  do-lytyll,  ye  be  so  longe  fro  horn."    And 
Nought  in  the  same  strain : 

"Yower  potage  xall  be  for-colde,  ser;  when  wyll  ye  do  dyne? 
I  haue  sene  a  man  lost  XX  noblys  in  as  lytyll  tyme." 

Mercy  is  provoked  at  such  foolish  talking.  He  repeats  his  former 
directions  to  Mankynde,  warning  him  not  to  meddle  with  the  vicious 
visitors.  "Thei  harde  not  masse  this  twelmonyth,  I  dare  say;  Do 
truly  yower  laboure,  &  kepe  yower  haly-day."  His  parting  words 
to  the  hero  are  instructions  how  to  treat  Tityvillus,  who  is  more 
malicious  than  the  others  and  whose  hidden  snares  are  everywhere 
laid  to  entrap  man.  With  this  he  embraces  Mankynde  and  with- 
draws. 

The  hero  sets  to  "tytyll  in  papyr"  the  resolution  that  Mercy's 
words  have  inspired  him. 

"Memento,  homo,  quod  cinis  es  et  in  cinerem  reuerteris: 
Lo!     I  ber  on  my  brest  the  bagge  of  myn  armys!" 

New  Gyse  enters  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  but  Mankynde,  who 
is  provided  with  a  spade,  keeps  on  digging,  according  to  the  counsel  - 
of  Mercy,  "to  eschew  ydullness."  Now-A-Days  and  Nought  shortly 
arrive  on  the  stage,  and  these  with  New  Gyse  sing  some  stanzas 
whose  refrain  very  appropriately  typifies  the  quality  of  the  vulgar 
song  itself.    "Yt  ys  wretyn  with  a  coll.    Yt  is  wretyn  with  a  cole !". 

Mankynde  grows  indignant  and  drives  them  off  the  stage  with 
his  spade.  He  kneels  to  thank  heaven  whose  "grace  and  this  spade 
haue  putt  to  flyght  myn  enmys."  He  leaves  the  stage  "ryght  sone 
to  reverte,"  and  bring  corn  to  plant  in  the  soil  he  has  tilled.  Mys- 
cheff  enters  and  deplores  that  Mercy  has  succeeded  too  well  in 
teaching  Mankynde ;  but  resolves  to  undo  what  has  been  done.  He 
invites  the  three  who  are  outside  groaning  over  their  wounds,  to 
come  in  and  offers  them  his  sympathy.  This  fellowship  in  woe 
assuages  the  smarts  of  the  spade,  and  shortly  all  set  to  plan  how  to 
revenge  themselves  on  Mankynde.  They  conjure  up  Tityvillus,  who 
is  soon  heard  outside:  "I  com  with  my  legges  under  me."  He  fi^. 
enters,  arrayed  like  a  devil  with  a  net  in  his  hand,  and  takes  entire  1>^ 
control  of  the  business  on  the  stage.  He  sends  New  Gyse,  Nought 
and  Now-A-Days  upon  expeditions  to  commit  depredations  of  all 
kinds.  "Yf  ye  fayll  of  hors,  take  what  ye  may  ellys."  They  beg 
him  as  they  go  not  to  forget  what  Mankynde  did  to  them.     He 


150 

promises  to  "venge  the  quarell,"  which  he  proceeds  to  do  after  he 
has  given  them  a  left-handed  blessing  as  assurance  of  his  pledge  and 
smpathy. 

Tityvillus  now  begins  operations  against  the  hero,  "to  assay  hys 
goode  purpose  for  to  sette  asyde."  As  illustrative  of  the  play- 
wright's effort  at  invention  and  his  desire  to  give  a  palpable  motive 
for  the  subsequent  action  of  the  hero,  I  will  transcribe  Tityvillus' 
scheme  which  he  confidentially  commits  to  the  audience. 

"Euer  I  go  invysybull,  yt  ys  my  rett, 
Ande  befor  hys  ey  thus  I  will  hange  my  nett 
To  blench  hys  syght;  I  hope  to  haue  hys  fote  wett. 

To  yrke  hym  of  hys  labur  I  xall  make  a  frame. 
Thys  borde  xall  be  hyde  under  the  erth  preuely; 
Hys  spade  xall  enter,   I  hope,  on-redyly; 
Be  then  he  hath  a-wayde,  he  xall  be  uery  angry 
And  lose  hys  pacyens,  peyn  of  schame. 

I  xall  menge  hys  come  with  draw  &  with  durnell, 
Yt  xall  not  be  lyke  to  sow  nor  to  sell. 
Yonder  he  commyth,  I  prey  of  cownsell; 

He  xall  wene  grace  were  wane." 

Mankynde  comes  on  the  stage  to  plant  the  corn,  but  as  he  begins 
to  dig  his  spade  sticks  into  the  board  which  Tityvillus  has  buried. 

"Thys  londe  ys  so  harde,  yt  make  unlusty  &  yrke, 
I  xall  sow  my  corne  at  winter  &  lett  Gode  werke. 
Alasse  my  corne  ys  lost!     Here  ys  a  foull  werke. 
I  se  well,  by  tyllynge  lytyll  xall  I  wyn." 

He  throws  away  his  spade  which  Tityvillus  stealthily  picks  up  and 
removes  to  the  back  of  the  stage.  Mankynde  begins  his  "ewyn- 
songe"  on  his  knees,  but  he  has  hardly  begun  the  Pater  Noster 
when  Tytvillus  returns  to  distract  him.  "I  xall  go  to  hys  ere  and 
tytyll  ther-in."  Mankynde  becomes  weary  of  praying  and  imagines 
he  is  seized  with  the  colic,  and  leaves  the  stage,  remarking  as  he 
retires:  "My  bedes  xall  be  here  for  who-summe-euer  wyll  cume." 
While  Mankynde  is  absent  Tityvillus  tells  the  audience  how 
easily  he  has  triumphed  over  the  hero's  resolution.  He  takes  them 
into  his  confidence  again  and  explains  further  his  plans  in  refer- 
ence to  Mankynde,  who,  as  he  now  enters,  begins : 

"Ewynsonge  hath  he  in  the  saynge,  I  trow,  a  fayer  wyll; 

I  am  yrke  of  yt,  yt  ys  to  longe  be  on  myle. 

Do  wey ;  I  wyll  no  more  so  oft  on  the  chyrche-style ; 

Be  as  be  may,  I  xall  do  a-nother. 

Of  labure  and  prayer  I  am  nere  yrke  of  both; 

I  wyll  no  more  of  yt,  thowgh  Mercy  be  wroth."  i 


151 

He  lies  down  and  sleeps.  Tityvillus  charges  the  audience  on  "peyn 
of  XL  pens"  not  to  utter  a  word.  He  then  whispers  in  the  ear  of 
Mankynde  the  ingenious  calumny  that  Mercy  has  stolen  a  mare  and 
was  hanged  for  the  theft.  He  bids  the  hero  to  dismiss  all  further 
thought  of  Mercy,  to  arise  and  ask  pardon  of  New  Gyse,  Now-A- 
Days  and  Nought  for  *'mekyll  sorow  with  thi  spade  beforn  thou 
hast  wrought."  The  fiend  sees  that  his  charm  has  had  its  effect, 
and  his  work  is  over.    He  addresses  parting  words  to  the  audience : 

"For-well,  eiierychon,  for  I  haue  done  my  game 
For  I  haue  brought  Mankynde  to  myscheflf  and  schame." 

Mankynde  awakes  transformed  to  all  evil  dispositions  and  unques- 
tioningly  accepts  the  vision  as  literally  true.  He  believes  that  he 
has  been  deceived  by  Mercy  and  the  consciousness  of  this  leads  him 
to  the  rash  resolve : 

"A-dew  fayer  Mastere!  I  will  hast  me  to  the  ale-house 
And  speke  with  New  Gyse,  Now-a-days  and  Noght, 
And  get  me  a  lemman  with  smattrynge  face." 

The  interim  between  this  purpose  and  its  realization  is  filled  out  by 
the  humorous  recital  of  the  ''narrow  escapes"  of  the  four  explorers 
whom  Tityvillus  commissioned.  New  Gyse  enters  with  a  broken 
halter  round  his  throat ;  and  explains  how  he  "was  twychyde  by  the 
neke."  Later,  when  Mankynde  asks  what  gave  him  the  crick  in  the 
neck,  the  villain  answers : 

"In  feyth  Sent  Andrys  holy  bende; 
I  haue  a  lytyll  dyshes  as  yt  plesse  Gode  to  sende, 
With  a  runnynge  rynge-worme." 

Nought  and  Now-A-Days  arrive  famished  with  hunger,  and  Mys- 
cheff,  who  has  slain  the  jailor,  enters  in  fetters  pretending  humor- 
ously to  be  a  man  in  armour. 

Mankynde  asks  pardon  for  the  injuries  he  inflicted  on  the  com- 
pany with  his  spade.  His  request  is  granted.  They  enroll  his  name 
in  their  list  and  provide  him  with  a  new  jacket,  which  is  symbolical 
of  the  moral  change  in  his  life.  These  details  as  well  as  the  actual 
dubbing,  which  consists  of  reiterated  pledges  on  the  part  of  Man- 
kynde to  commit  the  six  deadly  sins  ("lechery  ys  non")  are  con- 
siderably protracted,  though  apparently  not  unduly. 

Scarce  is  the  ceremony  over  and  Mankynde  clothed  in  his  'ioly 
iakett'  when  the  reproving  voice  of  Mercy  is  heard : 

"What,  how,  Mankynde !     fle  that  felyschyppe,  I  you  prey. 
Mankynde  turns  his  back  on  Mercy  and  goes  with  his  companions 


152 

"to  kepe  his  fader's  yer-day."  He  is  under  the  special  tuition  of 
Myscheff,  who  spares  no  pains  to  secure  his  spiritual  destruction. 
In  the  meantime  Mercy  bewails  the  prodigal  through  some  thirty 
lines.  His  lament  is  not  wanting  in  elevation  of  thought  and  depth 
of  feeling.  There  is  much  variety,  also,  in  the  rapidly  changing 
mood  of  the  speaker.  At  one  time  he  mourns  his  sad  lot  to  be 
charged  with  such  a  creature  as  Mankynde  "dyspectous  and  odyble, 
so  on-curtess,  so  inconsyderatte ;"  at  another  time  he  upbraids  the 
hero,  but  suddenly  breaks  off  and  in  self-reproach,  exclaims: 
"Alasse,  who  is  me?"  And  again  immediately  addresses  the  absent 
Mankynde  "as  the  fane  that  turnyth  with  the  wynde,  so  thou  art 
convertyble."  Finally,  from  a  direct  personal  attack,  he  enlarges 
on  the  nature  of  ingratitude  and  inconstancy  in  general. 
"In  trust  ys  treson,  the  promes  ys  not  credyble; 

This  peruersyose  ingratytude  I  cannot  rehers; 

To  go  oner  all  the  holy  corte  of  heuyn,  thou  art  despectyble. 

As  a  nobyll  versyfyer  makyth  mencyon  in  is  verse: 

Lex  et  natura,  Christus  et  omnia  jura 

Damnant  ingratum;  lungetur  eum  fore  natum.'* 

At  length  Mercy  entreats  "the  goode  Lady  and  the  Mother  of 
Mercy"  to  "haue  pety  and  compasyon  of  the  wretchydness  of  Man- 
kynde, that  is  so  wanton  and  so  frayll."  He  resolves  to  turn  the 
hero  from  the  "allectuose  ways  of  detestabull  lyvynge." 

Myscheff  does  his  utmost  to  hide  Mankynde,  who,  when  he 
hears  that  Mercy  is  "here  fast  by,"  and  wishes  to  speak  with  him, 
despairs  and  calls  for  a  rope  to  hang  himself.  Myscheff  gives  him 
the  rope  and  commissions  New  Gyse  to  show  the  hero  how  to  ad- 
just it  properly.  Mercy  arrives  in  time  to  prevent  the  crime.  All 
the  evil  agents  fly  on  his  entrance.  Mercy  urges  Mankynde  not  to 
despair,  but  to  take  courage  and  to  have  confidence.  He  explains 
to  the  hero  the  grounds  for  hope  and  the  danger  of  "weyn  con- 
fidens  of  Mercy."  Mankynde  is  beside  himself  for  joy  at  this  happy 
deliverance. 

"O  Mercy  my  solasius  solas  and  synguler  recreatory 
My  predilecte  speeyall,  ye  are  worthy  to  haue  my  lowe; 
For,  wyth-out  deserte  and  menys  supplicatorie, 
Ye  be- com  pacient  to  my  inexcusabyll  reprove." 

Mercy  at  great  length  warns  him  of  the  dangers  which  beset  his 
path  :  "Libere  velle,  libere  velle.  Ye  may  both  saue  and  spill  yowre 
sowle  that  is  so  precyous."  Then  he  cautions  him  to  beware  of 
Tityvillus  with  his  net  and  all  hys  enmys  wyll"  and  finally  bids  him 


153 

to  depart  in  peace  and  to  persevere.  Alone  on  the  stage  Mercy 
speaks  the  elilogue  which  unfolds  a  moral. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  structure  Mankynde  is, 
though  probably  antecedent  in  date,  easily  in  advance  of  the  earlier 
species  of  Morality.  The  playwright  brings  the  hero  into  close  re- 
lation with  the  action  which  in  some  manner  is  specially  suited  to 
express  the  characteristics  of  a  definite  individual,  or  at  least  a 
specific  type  and  not  a  frame  work  within  which  Humanity  or 
Everyman  could  fit  just  as  well.  In  other  words,  Mankynde  de- 
velops in  a  more  life-like  way  than  either  Humanum  Genus  of  the 
hero  of  Mundus  et  Infans,  and  to  some  extent  the  spectators  wit- 
ness a  process  of  growth.  In  the  rudimentary  attempt  at  precision 
of  outline,  the  motive,  however,  rationally  inadequate  to  account  for 
his  action,  gives  semblance  of  reason  for  Mankynde's  change  of 
resolution  and  prevents  the  violent  transition  from  good  to  evil 
which  is  the  common  fault  in  the  earlier  of  the  moral  plays.  There 
is  a  conscious  eflFort  not  merely  to  draw  the  hero  with  distinctness, 
but  also  to  render  his  doings  probable.  Mankynde  is  perhaps  the 
earliest  Moral  that  comes  closest  to  the  Renaissance  or  Humanistic 
varieties  of  Allegorical  dramas  of  which  it  is  now  in  place  to  speak 
briefly. 

At  this  point  in  the  development  of  the  Moral  play  a  number 
of  dramatic  growths  present  themselves.  These  sub-varieties  of 
the  Morality  species,  offshoots  of  the  parent  stem  which  drew  its 
existence  mediately  through  the  Cycles  from  the  Liturgical  germ  or 
root,  afford  valuable  indices  towards  an  estimate  of  characteriza- 
tion on  the  eve  of  the  Elizabethan  drama.  Certainly  at  no  period 
of  the  early  Gothic  theatre  had  there  been  such  dramatic  activity 
in  so  varied  directions  as  during  these  years  when  the  gradual  in- 
flux of  Renaissance  ideas  were  becoming  perceptible  on  the  stage. 
At  no  time  does  it  appear  so  evident  that  the  great  animating  prin- 
ciple beneath  the  ever-changing  forms  was  the  intuitive  perception 
on  the  part  of  the  dramatist,  that  the  secret  of  success  lay  in  the 
concrete  treatment  of  the  caste.  From  no  other  viewpoint  may  one 
see  so  clearly  the  advantages  and  shortcomings,  respectively,  of  the 
diverse  themes  dramatized.  The  presentation  of  his  persons  is  the 
sure  test,  the  last  analysis  in  determining  the  dramatic  worth  of  his 
subject  and  the  capability  of  the  author.  This  is  especially  true 
during  an  epoch  of  transition  and  at  a  time  when  neither  law  nor 
convention  excited  a  restraining  influence  on  the  native  resources  of 
the  playwright. 


154 

At  the  opening  of  the  sixteenth  century  dramatic  activity  was 
so  varied  that  the  new  experiments  considerably  modified  the  old 
Morality.  It  lost  in  a  great  measure  its  former  identity  and  grad- 
ually became  only  one  among  many  species  which  were  destined  to 
contribute  to  the  formation  of  the  Elizabethan  drama,  in  its  be- 
ginnings. All  these  several  attempts  at  dramatic  expression,  how- 
ever, were  influenced  in  the  way  of  form  by  the  structure  of  the 
Moral  play.  The  commodious  nature  of  the  Allegorical  mould  made 
it  an  easy  task  to  fit  in  any  conceivable  topic  with  sufificient  con- 
gruity.  Theological  dogma  and  philosophy,  the  physical  sciences, 
mythology,  history  and  politics  were  cast  into  it  and  adjusted  as 
nicely  as  had  been  the  purely  satiric  and  ethical  themes.  Authors 
whose  aim  was  primarily  to  amuse  followed  also  the  current  con- 
ventions of  the  stage  and  sought  their  effects,  at  least  in  part, 
through  an  allegorical  presentation.  It  has  been  noted  already  in  a 
quotation  from  the  Castle  of  Constancy  what  the  author's  attitude 
at  this  late  date  was  in  respect  to  allegory  and  how  little  this  shaded 
the  reality  of  his  persons.  In  proportion  as  character-treatment  de- 
veloped and  genuinely  individual  features  were  presented  on  the 
stage  to  that  degree  the  allegorical  element  dwindled  into  insignifi- 
cance. An  increased  proficiency  on  the  part  of  the  playwright  and 
the  novel  interest  imminent  in  his  subject  contributed  very  effec- 
tively to  replace  the  earlier  abstractions  with  characters  taken  from 
common  life.  * 

A  word  in  reference  to  the  respective  classes  or  varieties  of  dra- 
matic endeavor  will  be  sufficient  to  indicate  the  direction  taken  and 
show  the  power  in  character-presentation  noticeable  at  this  stage 
of  dramaturgical  experience.  At  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII,  a  branch  issued  from  the  Morality  stem  which  directly 
contributed  little  to  the  advance  of  character-treatment.  Fittingly 
enough  a  first  Morality  of  this  new  type  had  for  its  author  John 


*  Referring  to  the  English  theatre  of  Early  Renaissance  years,  M. 
Jusserand  writes:  "A  Londres,  la  part  de  la  vie  rpelle,  s'accrut  sans 
cesse;  les  trivialites  et  les  menus  incidents  qui  encombrerent  les  existences 
ordinaire,  encombrerent  aussi  les  pieces  qu'on  pretendait  calquer  sur  le  modele 
vivant;  les  personnages  abstraits  disparurent,  et  les  comedies  des  moeurs 
et  d'observation  demeura  en  possession  de  la  scene.  Mais  un  signe  visible 
de  I'ancienne  origine  demeura  toutefois  I'habtude  de  donner  au  personnages 
des  noms  qui  sent  des  etiquettes;  les  faiseurs  de  comedie  la  prirent  aux 
faiseurs  de  Moralities;  Sheridan  I'accepta  comme  Massinger;  apres  Ambition, 
et  Hypocrisie,  on  eut  sir  Giles  Overreach  et  Joseph  Surface.  Cette  coutunie 
qui  remonte  si  loin  n'est  pas  encore  entirement  abolie,"  L'Histoire  Litteraire 
du  peuple  Anglais.     T.  II,  p.  484. 


155 

Rastall,  brother-in-law  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  It  was  a  species  of 
Moral  in  the  interest,  not  of  religious  but  of  secular  education. 
This  modification  of  motive,  due  to  incipient  enthusiasm  for  Hu- 
manistic learning,  in  turning  the  attention  of  the  listeners  from  the 
immediate  consideration  of  moods  and  passions,  from  actions  and 
reactions  within  the  soul  of  the  hero  to  problems  of  cosmography 
and  physics — "poyntes  of  phylosophy  naturall" — would  transform 
the  stage  into  a  school-room.  It  was  impossible  that  such  sheer 
didacticism  would  long  continue  to  be  relished  by  the  play-goers, 
many  of  whom,  no  doubt,  could  not  grasp  the  inner  meaning  which 
the  writer  intended,  though  insisted  on  with  less  pains  than  he  took 
in  displaying  his  learning.  In  fact,  the  author  of  the  earliest  speci- 
men of  this  variety  of  drama,  The  Nature  of  the  Four  Elements,  (c. 
1 517)  anticipated  the  unpopularity  of  his  theme  and  promised  in 
the  prologue  to  enliven  his  lessons  by  introducing  less  serious  mat- 
ter. These  hors-d'oeuvres  brought  his  production  within  the  province 
of  the  dramatic  for  everybody  by  supplying  a  large  mite  of  human 
interest. 

But  because  some  folk  be  a  little  disposed 
To  sadness,  but  more  to  mirth  and  sport, 
This  philosophical  work  is  mixed 
With  merry  conceits,  to  give  men  comfort 
And  occasion  to  cause  them  to  resort 
To  hear  this  matter  whereto  if  they  take  heed 
Some  learning  to  them  thereof  may  proceed. 
The    "matter    substancyall"    which    Natura    Naturata;    Studyous, 
Desyre,  and  Experyens  undertake  to  teach  Humanyte  is  reduced  to 
the  following  heads : 

*0f  the  situation  of  the  four  elements,  that  is,  the  earth, 
water,  the  air  and  fire;  and  of  their  qualities  and  properties 
and  of  the  generation  and  corruption  of  things  made  of  the 
commixtion  of  them. 

*0f  certain  conclusions  proving  that  the  earth  must  needs 
be  round,  and  that  it  hangeth  in  the  midst  of  the  firmament 
and  that  it  is  in  circumference  above  21,000  miles. 

'Of  certain  conclusions  proving  that  the  sea  lieth  round 
upon  the  earth. 

"Of  certain  points  of  cosmography,  how  and  where  the  sea 
covereth  the  earth,  of  diverse  strange  regions  and  lands  and 
which  way  they  lie  and  of  the  new  found  lands  (America), 
and  the  manner  of  the  people. 

'Of  the  generation  and  cause  of  stone  and  metal,  and 
plants,  and  herbs.  Of  the  generation  and  cause  of  well- 
springs  and  rivers,  and  of  the  cause  of  hot  fumes  that  come 


156 

out  of  the  earth;  and  the  cause  of  the  baths  of  water  in  the 
earth  which  be  perpetually  hot. 

^Of  the  cause  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea. 

*0f  the  cause  of  rain,    snow   and   hail. 

'Of  the  cause  of  winds  and  thunder. 

'Of  the  cause  of  lightning  nnd  blazing  stars  and  flames 
flying  in  the  air. 

The  main  object  of  the  author  in  explaining  this  program  was 
not  solely  to  create  a  taste  for  the  study  of  nature,  but  to  lead 
Humanyte  from  a  consideration  of  created  things  to  a  more  worthy 
concept  of  the  Creator.  First,  a  knowledge  of  the  theology  of  na- 
ture befitted  the  student  of  divinity,  in  the  more  limited  sense. 
This  is  made  clear  by  the  speaker  of  the  prologue.  Humanyte  de- 
lights in  the  disquisitions  of  Natura  Naturata  and  ponders  them 
over  in  the  company  of  Studyous  Desyre,  who,  too,  is  capable  of 
giving  "suffycyent  solucyon"  to  cosmological  questions  which 
Humanyte  can  in  "no  maner  wyse  parceyve  nor  see."  But  the 
author,  true  to  his  promise,  did  not  forget  the  groundlings.  Sen- 
sual Appeytyte  comes  on  the  stage  and  in  the  absence  of  Studyous 
Desyre  prevails  on  Humanyte  not  to  waste  his  strength  on  study. 
By  the  time  Studyous  Desyre  arrives  with  Experyence,  a  man  that 
is  never  without  "dyvevrs  instrumentys,"  Sensual  Appetyte  has 
taken  the  hero  "for  a  pastime  of  recreation  to  a  tavern  where  Ignor- 
ance Shortly  joins  the  company.  Humanyte  loses  all  taste  for 
study  and  prefers  to  "refreshe  nature,  with  drynkes  plesaunt  and 
delycate  vyand"  than  to  return  to  the  lessons  of  Experynce  v/ho  in 
the  interim  has  been  instructing  Studyous  Desyre. 

.In  root  this  play  is  not  so  different  as  it  seems  to  be  from  the 
purely  religious  Morals.  It  meant  to  illustrate  the  strife  between 
good  and  evil  in  man  from  a  new  point  of  view.  Nature  and  Expe- 
rience would  lead  the  hero  along  the  path  of  truth  to  a  higher  and 
happier  mode  of  life ;  their  antagonists,  Sensual  Appetyte  and  Ignor- 
ance were  bent  on  his  ruin. 

Another  branchlet  in  this  new  arm  of  the  old  trunk  is  the  play 
Wyt  and  Science,  by  John  Redford.  Mr.  Manly,  who  has  edited 
the  text,  says  it  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  Allegories  extant  and 
illustrates  well  the  variety  of  the  Moral  play  which  concerned  itself 
with  the  diffusion  of  secular  learning.  All  the  dramatis  personae 
bear  abstract  names  and  there  are  no  fewer  than  nineteen  engaged 
in  the  presentation.  These  plays,  however,  are  by  no  means  inani- 
mate; each  has  many  personal  interests  and  a  will  to  realize  them. 


157 

What  contributes  most  to  the  Hfe  of  this  piece  is  that  there  is  no 
formal  program  to  be  disposed  of,  as  in  the  Nature  of  the  Four 
Elements.  The  author  is  less  concerned  in  the  kind  and  amount 
of  what  he  actually  imparts  than  in  the  manner  in  which  instruction, 
in  general,  is  imparted.  His  purpose  is  mainly  to  show  the  diffi- 
culties, in  their  way  at  times  dramatic,  that  beset  those  who  pursue 
after  Wyt  and  Science.  A  struggle  takes  place  in  the  intellectual 
order  similar  to  that  experienced  by  the  hero  when  ethical  interests 
were  at  issue.  Tediousness,  Idleness  and  Shame  work  harm  in  its 
kind  as  fatal  to  Wyt  and  Science  as  were  the  efforts  of  Mundus 
Caro,  and  Belyall,  of  Tityvillus  and  the  three  'unthryfty  gestes' 
unthryfty  gestes  to  Humanum  Genus  and  Mankynde.  The  intellect 
had  its  enemies  even  as  the  will,  and  their  mode  of  attack  was  not 
quite  dissimilar.  It  was  this  inner  conflict  Redford  sought  to  make 
objective  as  his  predecessors  had  solidified  the  fluent,  intangible  and 
spiritual  processes  that  affected  the  human  will. 

The  Marriage  of  Witte  and  Science  is  closely  modeled  on  John 
Redford's  Morality  which  preceded  it  on  the  stage  fully  half  a  cen- 
tury. The  play  is  regularly  divided  into  five  acts  and  in  every  re- 
spect shows  this  subvariety  of  the  moral  species  at  its  perfection. 
Though  the  author  in  many  instances  only  modernizes  the  language 
of  the  older  play,  the  whole  treatment,  however,  is  not  merely  more 
perfect  on  the  literary  side,  but  the  later  playwright's  sense  of  the 
dramatic  in  the  way  of  technical  effects  is  far  keener  and  more  sure 
than  that  which  may  be  ascribed  to  his  predecessor.  The  blending 
of  the  light  with  the  serious  in  the  action  and  the  proximity  of  the 
whole  to  actual  life  prove  a  more  developed  dramatic  instinct.  The 
allegory  affects  the  construction  merely.  The  caste  is  abstract  only 
in  name.  There  is  a  prayer  for  the  King  and  Queen  at  the  close  of 
the  play  which  fixes  the  date.  According  to  Collier  it  must  have 
been  written  "late"  in  the  regn  of  Henry  VIII. 

"The  lesson,"  says  Ward,  "which  the  Marriage  of  Witte  and 
Science  enforces  is  thoroughly  sound  and  sensible."  In  this  respect 
at  least  it  brings  us  close  to  a  parallel  branch,  which,  as  itself, 
draws  sap  from  the  old  stem.  The  variety  of  Morality  to  which  I 
refer,  may  be  illustrated  by  the  Disobedient  Child,  "a  pretie  and 
mery  new  Enterlued,"  by  Thomas  Ingelande,  "late  student  in  Cam- 
bridge." This  play  is  of  interest  for  many  reasons,  though  it  is 
merely  representative  of  a  large  number  of  others.  Lusty  Juventus, 
the  Interlude  of  Youth,  New  Custom,  Nice  Wanton,  The  Longer 


158 

Thou  Livest  the  More  Foole  Thou  Art,  Like  Will  to  Like,  The 
Three  Ladies  of  London,  and  especially  The  Three  Lordes  and 
Ladies  of  London,  set  forth  in  sum,  the  lesson  contained  in  the  Dis- 
obedient Child  and  would  illustrate  my  point  fully  as  well.  The 
teaching  presented  in  the  plays  that  had  to  do  with  education  in 
general  is  illuminated  on  the  negative  side  by  the  variety  of  drama 
of  which  this  of  Ingelande's  is  a  fair  specimen.  The  Disobedient 
Child  is  in  structure  simplicity  itself,  the  author  evidently  having 
in  mind  throughout  the  one  idea  of  illustrating  in  a  telling  manner 
the  evil  effects  of  bad  education  and  of  hasty  and  imprudent  wed- 
lock. There  is  no  abstract  figure  introduced  if  we  except  Satan, 
the  devil  whose  part  stands  in  no  vital  relation  with  the  main  move- 
ment, but  a  mere  interpolation  of  the  author  either  to  supply  in- 
terest in  the  piece  or  in  deference  to  the  old  time  convention.  Satan 
here  is  so  little  himself  that  he  quite  forgets  his  role,  and  after  a 
long  explanation  of  his  powers  and  experiences  among  men  he  ad- 
vises the  younger  part  of  the  audience  to  take  heed  of  his  tempta- 
tion, for  he  goes  on  to  say,  unless  God  supports  them  "they  can- 
not agaynst  me  sticke  or  stande."  With  this  he  retires  from  the 
stage. 

The  Disobedient  Child  not  only  marks  the  passing  away  of 
allegorical  abstractions  from  the  Mediaeval  stage  and  the  introduc- 
tion of  real,  though  still  typical  life,  but  in  the  use  of  dramatic 
technique  there  is  a  noticeable  advance.  The  action  in  brief  is 
this:  The  Rich  Man's  Son  asks  his  father  "what  is  the  best  way 
to  spend  short  life?"  The  answer  given  is  first  to  go  to  school. 
But  the  lad  detests  nothing  more  than  to  "consume"  his  life  at  a 
book.  He  prefers  any  task  to  the  "business"  of  the  school — "the 
house  and  prison  of  the  school-master."  He  brings  forward  rea- 
sons to  convince  Rich  Man,  his  father,  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  study;  the  thing  is  tiresome  in  itself,  and  what  is  more, 
there  is  mortal  danger  in  attending  the  local  school  owing  to  the 
vigorous  discipline  flourishing  there.  He  illustrates  this  last  point 
by  the  narration  of  the  tragic  fate  of  one  of  his  companions  who 
fell  a  victim  of  the  master's  rod.  Nothing  of  all  this,  however,  has 
any  weight  with  Rich  Man,  because  his  son  is  grounding  his  argu- 
ments on  mere  hearsay  and  has  no  direct  experience  of  school-life. 
The  old  man  could  tell  many  catastrophes — not  so  tragic,  indeed, 
as  that  of  his  son's  illustration,  but  none  the  less  fatal — that  re- 
sulted from  non-attendance  at  school.     Rich  Man's  Son  does  not 


159 

see  things  as  his  father  and  only  grows  more  wilful  in  his  resolu- 
tion not  to  go  to  school.  He  boldly  asks  for  a  wife — a  request 
which  he  thinks  his  age  and  the  practice  of  everybody  around  ought 
to  make  sufficiently  reasonable.  The  father,  presaging  the  bitter 
consequences  of  this  rash  act,  reluctantly  permits  his  son  to  go  in 
search  of  a  bride. 

The  son  leaves  home  and  shortly  wins  the  affection  of  Rose. 
During  his  absence  an  amusing  scene  takes  place  in  the  kitchen  be- 
tween the  man-servant  and  the  maid-servant  who  are  in  extreme 
ill-humor  on  account  of  the  extra  work  involved  in  the  elaborate 
preparations — buying,  baking  and  boiling — "for  the  great  bridal 
against  to-morrow."  The  cooks  converse  in  very  natural  tones  and 
freely  exchange  their  sentiments  touching  their  master's  choice. 
A  glance  and  a  word  suffice  for  Blanche  to  tell  the  temperament  of 

the  bride: 

"The  tip  of  her  nose  is  as  sharp  as  mine, 
Her  tongue  and  her  tune  is  very  shrill.     .     .     ." 

The  priest  who  is  to  preside  at  the  ceremony  is  no  ordinary 
pastor;  he  has  many  personal  traits  which  remove  him  from  the 
conventional  type  and  efface  family  resemblance.  He  appears  be- 
fore the  audience  quite  out  of  patience.  The  reason  of  his  provoca- 
tion is  that  "many  a  time  and  oft"  he  must  "play  priest,  clerk  and 
all,"  owing  to  the  irregular  life  led  by  his  sexton — "whose  nose  is 
not  greatly  pale."  He  officiates,  however,  at  the  nuptials,  as  shortly 
after  the  husband  and  wife  come  before  the  audience. 

Rich  Man's  Son  so  delights  in  his  new  experience  that  he  finds 
its  sweetness  has  surpassed  even  his  anticipations. 

"0  Lord,  what  pleasures  and  great  commodity 
Are  heaped  together  in  matrimony"! 

Shortly,  however,  these  pleasant  sensations  are  changed  for  others 
less  disagreeable  when  his  wife  orders  him  to  work. 

"0  Mirth,  O  Joy,  O  Pastime  and  pleasure, 
How  little  a  space  do  you  endure!" 

She  has  him  to  gather  faggots  and  carry  them  on  his  back  to  the 
market.  To  overcome  his  reluctance  the  stage  direction  bids  her 
"to  strike  him  handsomly  about  the  shoulders  with  something."  She 
is  not  pleased  with  the  sale  he  has  made  and  again  seizes  the  rod 
"to  make  the  brains  in  his  skull  more  deeply  to  settle."  This  over 
she  bids  him  fetch  a  pail  of  water  from  a  distant  well  and  on  his 
return  she  hurries  him  to  the  stream  to  do  the  washing.    He  brings 


160  ^ 

back  the  clothes,  in  his  opinion,  "white  as  a  lily,"  but  she  detects 
a  stain  and  "must  knock  him  down,"  as  the  rubric  directs.  Finally 
she  goes  to  visit  her  friends,  but  warns  her  husband  not  to  leave 
the  house  during  her  absence.  In  this,  however,  he  does  not  obey. 
As  soon  as  she  is  out  of  sight  he  goes  to  his  father's  home  to  be 
relieved  of  his  termagant  spouse.  The  devil  keeps  house  in  his 
absence. 

The  meeting  of  the  father  and  the  prodigal  is  well  worked  out. 
When  the  father  asks  "what  cheer  with  thee?"  the  son  falls  on  his 
knees  and  confesses  his  imprudence : 

"All  such  sayings  as  in  my  mind 
At  the  first  time  ye  studied  to  settle 
Most  true,  alas,  I  do  them  find, 
As  though  they  were  written  in  the  Gospel.*' 

The  father  artfully  enough  has  forgotten  what  his  advice  had  been, 
so  that  the  son  goes  over  the  whole  history  of  his  experiences,  tell- 
ing how  his  "seely  poor  shoulders  have  been  thwacked  full  often 
with  the  staff.  She  spareth  no  more  my  flesh  and  bone  than  if  my 
body  were  made  of  stone."  Rich  Man  is  not  prodigal  of  his  sym- 
pathy, so  that  despite  entreaties  the  young  man  has  to  return  to 
his  wife.  This  logical  outcome  is  a  very  unusual  ending  of  the 
action  in  a  Moral  play.  Qui  parcit  virgae  odit  filium  is  the  lesson 
the  speaker  of  the  epilogue  enforces,  with  a  less  pitiless  exhorta- 
tion to  despise  the  vanities  of  this  life  "and  set  the  mind  on  the 
Holy  Ghost." 

Such  in  outline  is  the  form  and  content  of  this  representative 
Moral  play  which  dates  from  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  margin  that  separates  it  from  Gammer  Gurton's  Needle  is  not 
broad.  Long  before  the  appearance  of  either,  however,  John  Hey- 
wood  (who  died  about  1580)  had  written  in  a  true  Chaucerian  vein 
six  plays  that  had  anticipated  many  of  the  qualities  for  which  the 
Disobedient  Child  is  chiefly  deserving  of  mention  here.  Heywood's 
Johan  and  Tyb  and  Margery  Corson  are  surely  as  real  as  Rich 
Man's  Son,  Rose,  or  Blanche. 

Heywood  was  a  typical  dramatist  of  his  time.  Endowed  with  a 
good  voice  and  musical  ability  he  was  at  an  early  age  attached  to 
the  court  of  Henry  VUI,  and  enjoyed  the  lucrative  as  well  as  hon- 
orable office  of  Master  of  the  King's  Children-Comedians.  Like 
Chaucer,  whom  he  resembles  in  very  many  lines,  Heywood  was 
not  a  polemist  nor  a  Crusader.     He  preferred  to  hold  aloof  from 


161 

all  religious  and  political  strife.  Not  wishing  to  conform  to  the 
religion  of  the  state  nor  to  adopt  the  teachings  of  the  New  Learning, 
he  gave  up  his  living  and  quietly  retired  to  Mechlin  where  he  was 
living  as  late  as  1575. 

His  dramatic  work,  perfectly  presenting  the  mediaeval  concep- 
tion of  life  with  all  its  unobtrusive  serious-joyousness,  is  so  like 
that  of  the  moral  playwright,  and  yet  in  so  many  ways  touching 
the  coming  drama,  that  it  marks  a  transition  stage  between  the 
Mediaeval  and  Elizabethan.  The  lively  realistic  action  of  Hey- 
wood's  Interludes  (a  very  appropriate  name  in  its  literal  meaning 
and  historical  reference)  was  sure,  by  degrees,  to  push  the  abstrac- 
tions of  the  moralities  from  the  stage.  In  extracting  from  its  re- 
ligious and  didactic  surroundings  the  comic  element  incidental  in 
the  cycles  and  early  moralities,  and  emphasizing  it  almost  exclu- 
sively, Heywood  did  much  to  further  the  interests  of  dramatic 
characterization.  It  is  chiefly  in  this  respect  that  he  merits  his  im- 
portant position  in  the  history  of  the  English  drama.  In  point  of 
construction  and  dramatic  development,  Heywood  is  scarcely  better 
than  the  least  gifted  moral  playwright  of  his  time.  It  would,  in- 
deed, be  truer  to  say  that  his  plays  are  dramatic  episodes  than 
dramas.  He  possessed,  however,  qualities  that  his  contemporary 
fellow-workers  might  have  profitably  imitated.  Ten  Brink  says  of 
him  that  "he  did  not  create  English  Comedy,  but  certainly  many 
of  its  essential  elements.  He  prepared  the  way  for  it  much  in  the 
same  way  as  the  Comedia  dell'  Arte  served  as  the  first  stage  to 
Moliere's  art."  Further  on  the  same  writer  places  the  value  of 
Heywood  not  in  any  cleverness  of  technique,  but  in  "successful 
delineation  of  character  (even  though  not  carried  to  any  great 
depth)  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  whimsical  ideas,  dramatic  anima- 
tion and  in  the  development  of  an  effective  though  drastic  species 
of  comicality."  * 

If,  as  Brunetiere  holds,  t  freedom  of  satire  be  an  essential 
condition  for  the  birth  and  growth  of  the  comedie  de  caracteres, 
Heywood  was  in  no  way  withheld  from  the  freest  treatment  of  his 
caste.  Perhaps  he  comes  nearer  to  his  prototype  in  this  respect 
than  in  any  other.  Like  Chaucer  and  Sir  Thomas  More,  he  could 
let  his  fancy  play  with  no  thought  of  danger.  What  Professor 
Egan  says  of  them  is  applicable  in  a  measure  to  Heywood.     "His 

♦History  of  Eng.  Lit.,  Vol.  II,  part  2,  pp.  134-147. 
t  Lea  Epoques  due  Theatre  Fraicais,  pp.  142  ff. 


162 

geniality,  his  acuteness  in  the  knowledge  of  the  foibles  of  humanity, 
his  optimism,  his  power  of  picturing,  his  grace  and  immortal  fresh- 
ness make  him  beloved  of  the  world As  the  Cathedral 

carvings  of  his  time,  we  find  in  his  work  strange  things  which 
modern  taste,  more  delicate,  rejects.  Like  all  men  of  genius,  he 
was  of  his  time,  but  not  of  the  worst  of  it."  *  No  one  could  be 
lost  among  the  pilgrims  to  Canterbury  more  easily  than  Heywood's 
Four  P's.  No  one  as  this  type  of  mediaeval  playwrights  could  laugh 
so  heartily  at  the  traditional  bogus  Pardoner  who  was  perpetually 
offering  for  sale  a  flask  of  Saint  Michael's  sweat,  the  finger-nail  of 
a  cherub,  the  whole  finger  of  the  Holy  Ghost  and  the  jaw-bone  of 
All  Saints. 

Heywood's  manner  of  writing,  combined  with  the  wide- 
spreading  Humanism  did  much  to  weaken  the  influence  of  mediaeval 
dramatic  motives.  The  auditors  could  no  longer  rest  satisfied  with 
the  serious  religious  and  didactic  presentations  that  they  had  for- 
merly enjoyed.  This  drastic  reaction,  wholly  unconscious  on  the 
part  of  the  pioneer  of  English  Comedy,  did  much  to  advance  the 
interests  of  the  stage.  He  came  before  the  public  opportunely.  In 
every  department  of  mental  activity  there  was  a  quickening  interest, 
a  selective  and  assimilative  process  going  on.  Obviously  more 
than  for  anyone  else  it  was  the  playwright's  business  to  gauge  the 
spirit  of  the  times.  This,  of  course,  had  not  yet  so  generally  be- 
come the  vital  necessity  it  was  later  when  popular  approval  meant 
considerably  more  for  the  needy  dramatist  than  the  satisfaction  of 
an  empty  vanity.  The  efforts  of  the  playwright  to  keep  pace  with 
current  thought  and  taste,  the  tendency  on  his  part  to  treat  his 
matter  more  consciously,  or,  on  what  may  be  called  artistic  prin- 
ciples, have  been  noted.  In  all  this  Heywood  was  of  his  time.  In 
his  manner  of  appropriating,  selecting  and  rejecting  material  to 
fit  his  purposes  he  see^J^  to  have  had  no  compunctious  visitings. 
He  was  as  indifferent  in  this  respect  as  his  son,  Jasper,  a  free  trans- 
lator of  Seneca's  plays,  or  any  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  In 
the  spirit  of  Chaucer  and  of  the  Towneley  playwright  he  gathered 
suggestions  from  every  source — from  the  cycles  and  moralities, 
from  poetry  and  romance,  from  gossip  and  his  own  inexhaustible 
imagination.  He  recast  and  shaped  this  motley  material  into  his 
one-act  drama,  giving  the  twice-told  tale  an  original  freshness  and 
charm. 

•  Egan,  M.  F.,  Studies  in  literature,  pp.  26-27. 


163 

The  religious  stage,  Liturgical,  Cyclical  and  Moral,  was  com- 
paratively well  fitted  for  a  highly  dramatic  presentation  of  sacred 
themes,  as  long  as  the  religious  motive,  so  repeatedly  referred  to, 

ftained  its  mediaeval  effectiveness ;  but  when  at  the  passing  away 
mediaeval  habits  of  thought  and  life,  the  ''two  senses"  were  grad- 
ually losing  point,  and  the  "functional  ideas"  that  predominated 
almost  to  exclusiveness  the  life  of  man  in  the  Middle  Ages  ceased 
to  operate  in  the  manner  and  degree  of  former  times,  it  was  im- 
perative for  the  dramatist  to  have  recourse  to  other  means  to  secure 
new  motives  of  appeal.  To  this  John  Heywood's  work  and  the 
pieces  of  the  later  Moral  playwrights  evidently  point.  The  first 
notable  attempt  at  purely  English  Comedy  in  the  Towneley  Secunda 
Pastorum,  is  the  best  proof  of  a  like  feeling  in  the  cycles.  The  de- 
sire on  the  part  of  the  playwright  to  widen  and  vary  his  scope  of 
appeal  manifested  itself  the  moment  the  drama  left  the  Sanctuary 
when  the  playwright  seemed  first  to  awaken  to  the  consciousness 
of  his  work.  The  development  of  this  dramatic  instinct,  virtually 
synonymous  with  growth  of  pov/er  in  character-treatment  has  been 
sufficiently  illustrated  in  its  different  degrees  and  directions  that  it 
is  not  necessary  to  dwell  on  it  further  here.  Yet  in  one  other 
branch  of  the  Morality  one  finds  a  very  conscious  effort  to  supple- 
ment a  purely  religious  motive  by  one  scarcely  less  effective — an 
appeal  to  national  sympathy  and  interest. 

Bale's  Kinge  Johan  shows  this  clearly  and  is,  moreover,  a  very 
favorable  specimen  of  that  numerous  class  of  later  moralities  in  the 
interests  of  the  New  Learning  as  distinguished  from  those  moral 
plays  which,  as  was  seen,  reflected  in  their  measure  the  spirit  of 
Humanism.  In  Kynge  Johan,  Bale,  says  Mr.  Saintsbury,  in  re- 
ferring to  the  historical  character  of  the  play,  "first  blundered  on 
a  path  which  led  to  the  heights  of  English  literature."  The  word 
"blundered"  aptly  defines  the  process.  Looked  at  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  morality,  Kynge  Johan  is  a  decided  advance  toward 
the  drama  of  secular  and  historical  purpose,  though  as  Mr.  Schell- 
ing  points  out,  it  had  no  influence  on  the  coming  theatre,  but  may 
well  be  regarded  as  the  connecting  link  between  the  Morality  species 
of  drama  and  the  Chronicle  play.  *  This,  however,  is  high 
tragedy,  Gorboduc,  "King  of  Great  Brittaine,"  contributed  in  a 
praise  as  the  same  author  (p.  273)  doubts  that  our  earliest  English 
positive  way  to  the  growth  of  the  Historical  drama. 

♦  The  Chronicle  Play,  pp.  16-17,  272  ff. 


164 

Bale,  in  choosing  an  historical  name  for  his  hero,  sought  a  new 
motive  of  appeal.  In  presenting  King  John,  despite  the  historical 
facts,  (for  John  Bale  shows  himself  wholly  destitute  of  any  faculty 
to  perceive  truth)  as  the  champion  of  "Crysten  libertie  and  Cristes 
holy  gospell,"  the  playwright  not  only  rendered  concrete  and  signifi- 
cative the  action  of  the  abstractions  that  plot  against  the  King  and 
the  welfare  of  religion  and  the  realm,  but  in  associating  all  these 
wrongs  with  English  interests,  the  dramatist  secured  a  direct  hold 
on  the  main  springs  of  genuine  dramatic  power.  In  the  Conflict  of 
Conscience,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  process  v/as  just  the  reverse 
of  this ;  the  didactic  purpose  was  much  less  veiled.  Francis  Spiera 
is  translated  by  Philologus,  whereas  Crysten  libertie  or  Veryte  is 
personified  in  a  passionate  manner  by  an  English  King.  With  this 
change  of  dramatic  motives  the  moral  play  lost  its  identity  and 
ceased  to  be  an  independent  species.  It  would  be  an  idle  under- 
taking to  pursue  it  further  in  the  vain  hope  of  extracting  its  ele- 
ments from  the  heterogeneous  mass  compounded  by  the  varied  and 
extraordinary  activity  of  English  playwrights  during  the  first  twenty 
years  of  Elizabeth's  reign. 

Briefly,  to  summarize :  The  reference  in  the  opening  section  to 
a  parallelism  of  origin  and  growth  existing  between  the  Greek  and 
Gothic  drama  has  been  to  some  extent  justified.  If  the  two  indis- 
pensable conditions  for  the  rise  of  a  great  national  theatre  be  "on 
the  one  hand,  a  wide-spread  rehgious  beUef,  accompanied  by  splendor 
of  religious  ritual ;  on  the  other,  flexibility  of  imagination  enabling 
the  dramatist  to  give  form,  life  and  individuality  to  the  floating 
conceptions  of  the  people  —  both  requirements  were  satisfied  by 
Athenian  genius;  and  Attic  tragedy  and  comedy  were  the  joint 
products  of  the  religious  spectacles  of  the  Dionysia  and  the  succes- 
sion of  great  inventors  who  interpreted  the  feelings  of  the  specta- 
tors." The  Gothic  drama  "in  its  infant  form,  is  the  direct  product 
of  the  religious  Ritual;  the  festival  of  Corpus  Christi  becomes  as 
powerful  an  instrument  as  the  Dionysia  at  Athens  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  actor's  art."  * 

It  was  not  intended  to  lean  too  much  on  this  fact  of  similarity 
and  development;  for,  though  the  parallel  may  be  true  in  general, 
it  does  not,  however,  bear  to  be  pressed  on  equally  at  all  points  along 
the  line.  At  Corinth  and  Athens  the  classic  drama  which  was  an 
integral  part  in  the  worship  of  the  deity  developed  in  a  true  sense 
*Courthope,  W.  A.  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  392  473. 


165 

organically  from  the  earlier  informal  liturgies,  the  spontaneous,  re- 
ligious and  dramatic  expression  of  the  rural  populations  at  their 
several  seasonal  gatherings.  After  one  has  left  the  Moral  plays, 
whatever  connection  in  other  respects  he  may  see  between  them  and 
the  other  species  of  the  English  drama,  it  would  be  difficult,  except 
in  a  most  general  way,  to  carry  out  the  parallelism  evident  enough 
between  the  earlier  forms  of  the  theatre  in  England  and  Greece.  In 
referring  to  this  analogy  the  main  purpose  in  view  had  been  to  show 
apropos  of  Grecian  worship  that  in  connection  with  the  Christian 
cult,  and  particularly  in  the  liturgy  of  the  Mediaeval  Church,  there 
were  dramatic  germs  which  under  suitable  conditions  and  like  treat- 
ment were  capable  of  growing  into  a  drama  not  inferior  to  its  proto- 
type. This  might  have  been;  the  fact  is,  no  practice  or  institution 
has  had  part  in  creating  what  may  be  called  the  essential  qualities 
of  a  Gothic  drama  to  any  degree  comparable  to  that  effected  by  the 
ecclesiastical  Ritual  all  through  the  Middle  Ages.  Other  important 
influences  there  had  been,  but  the  Liturgical  germs  as  containing 
in  a  peculiar  manner  the  root-principle  of  dramatic  life  and  growth 
alone  deserved  to  be  named  the  source  of  the  Gothic  drama. 

Intimately  connected  with  the  awakening  consciousness  of  the 
dramatic  instinct  is  the  origin  and  application  of  the  basic  law  which 
governs  dramatic  movement — the  law  of  characterization.  The  re- 
lation of  the  Mediaeval  English  drama  to  the  Liturgical  Offices  is 
observable  from  no  point  so  fully  as  in  the  presentation  of  the  wor- 
shipped realities  which  were  back  of  the  symbols.  The  univer- 
sality of  appeal  so  marked  in  the  Ritual  sprang  from  the  effort  to 
bring  the  veiled  actuality  more  and  more  within  the  perception  of 
the  senses  which  was  the  direct  object  of  the  Lturgical  drama.  Pre- 
cisely in  the  very  reason  of  its  origin  we  have  defined  the  nature 
and  purpose  of  the  drama  of  all  times.  It  was  intended  to  supple- 
ment the  Liturgical  Acts  proper  which  themselves  aimed  at  the 
fullest  realization  possible  of  the  loftiest  spiritual  ideas  and  of  em- 
bodying human  feelings  and  aspirations  in  a  tangible  form.  It 
meant  from  the  start  to  show  Truth  his  face,  to  hold  the  mirror  up 
to  nature,  or  more  concretely,  to  present  m.an  as  a  whole — reasoning, 
willing  and  feeling — on  a  deeply  moral  background. 

From  the  beginning  the  playwright  dealt  with  a  reality  peculiar- 
ly suited  to  his  capacity  and  tastes.  There  was  nothing  to  tramel 
the  flexibility  of  the  imagination,  as  the  Autos  Sacramentales  of 
Calderon,  abundantly  prove;  sheer  incapacity  alone  impeded  the 
Mediaeval  playwright  from  giving  through  the  medium  of  words 


166 

and  action,  (as  was  actually  effected  by  the  mediaeval  builders  and 
painters)  "form,  life  and  individuality  to  the  floating  conceptions  of 
the  people."  The  fault  was  not  with  his  subject-matter,  it  was  in 
himself. 

It  has  not,  perhaps,  been  always  sufficiently  recognized,  at  least 
seldom  adequately  acknowledged,  to  what  extent  after  development 
in  the  treatment  of  the  caste  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  earlier  play- 
wright at  first  identified  his  purpose  with  that  of  the  Liturgy,  and 
later  worked  on  doctrinal  and  ethical  themes.  Ordinarily  in  all  be- 
ginnings at  expression  through  art,  much  energy  is  expended  in- 
effectually. There  are  few  or  no  positive  results  of  value  from  the 
early  exercises  at  dramatization  that  would  influence  in  a  direct  way 
the  Elizabethan  writer  of  plays.  This  is  beyond  question.  None 
the  less  the  idea  that  the  playwright  conceived  at  the  beginning  was 
essentially  dramatic;  it  involved  the  only  really  important  problem 
of  his  day,  for  it  engaged  itself  with  nothing  less  than  the  criterion 
that  regulated  the  intrinsic  worth  or  worthlessness  of  personal  acts 
and  policies.  Surely  such  material  might  be  easily  prepared  for 
the  stage  and  considerable  effect  produced  without  great  effort. 
Free  from  rule  and  precedent,  all  the  author's  energy  and  talent 
were  directed  to  the  one  end  of  presenting  in  the  clearest  and  most 
emphatic  way  in  his  power  this  essence  of  all  dramatic  action.  The 
struggle  of  the  human  will  against  opposing  forces  of  preternatural 
malice  and  might  was  a  conflict  of  intense  interest  to  the  mediaeval 
man,  and  one,  as  was  seen,  which  he  could  justly  appreciate  by  rea- 
son of  the  very  keen  perception  of  the  sanction  governing  the  ever 
doubtful  issue  of  the  combat.  Founded  on  ethical  ideas  these  un- 
couth, incipient  attempts  at  dramatic  expression  served  to  intensify 
in  the  mind  of  the  auditor  that  consciousness  of  personal  responsi- 
bility which  already  dominated  his  life.  * 


*  Brander  Matthews,  The  Development  of  the  Drama,  pp.  120-121.  "Altho 
The  priests  who  put  it  together  had  not  given  a  thought  to  this  aspect  of 
it,  the  story  of  Jesus  is  truly  dramatic,  not  only  in  its  humanity,  in  its 
color,  in  its  variety,  in  its  infinite  pathos  but  also  and  chiefly  in  its  full 
possession  of  the  prime  essential  of  a  true  drama — in  its  having  at  the 
heart  of  it  a  struggle,  an  exhibition  of  determination,  a  clash  of  contending 
desires.  Indeed,  it  is  the  most  dramatic  of  all  struggles  for  it  is  the 
perpetual  conflict  of  good  and  evil.  To  us  moderns,  the  issue  is  sharply 
joined;  but  in  the  mediaeval  church  it  was  even  more  obvious;  since  in  the 
middle  ages  no  one  ever  doubted  that  a  personal  Devil  was  forever  striving 
to  thwart  the  will  of  a  personal  God.  In  the  passion-play,  which  showed 
in  action  all  the  leading  events  of  the  life  of  Christ,  both  contestants  were 
set  boldly  before  the  spectators — God  himself  high  in  Heaven,  and  the 
Devil  escaping  from  Hell-mouth  to  work  his  evil  among  mankind.'* 


167 

This  was  a  preliminary,  of  some  importance  if  one  would  arrive 
at  an  accurate  estimate  of  the  intrinsic  dramatic  worth  of  the  sub- 
ject-matter itself,  which,  when  viewed  relative  to  the  mediaeval 
author  and  audience,  acquired  a  value  not  easily  perceptible  from 
the  text.  It  was  chiefly  this  implicit  quality  I  have  tried  to  show. 
An  exaggerated  stress  on  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  the  epical  and 
lyrical  recitations  in  the  halls  of  the  nobility  by  the  successors  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  Scop  and  Gleeman,  and  the  hopelessly  barren  manoeu- 
vres before  the  people  of  the  mediaeval  histriones,  mimi  and  jocu- 
latores  weakens  the  emphasis  that  justly  belongs  to  the  liturgical 
drama  in  which  alone,  there  is  apparent  genuine  dramatic  promise. 
It  possessed,  so  far  as  the  drama  is  concerned,  what  was  essential 
in  them ;  and  besides  its  depth  of  interest,  the  university  of  its  ap- 
peal, its  inexhaustible  nature  in  every  way — were  so  many  essential 
dramatic  qualities  not  wholly  hidden  in  the  comparatively  few  rem- 
nants of  the  early  Gothic  drama. 

Character  was  defined  to  be  the  summed  qualities  of  man  and 
its  presentation  nothing  less  than  a  setting  forth  of  the  processes 
and  acts  of  the  human  reason,  will  and  perception,  through  whose 
innumerable  varieties  of  activity  the  sum  was  reached.  The  great 
aim  of  the  dramatist  was  to  present  the  whole  life  of  his  hero — 
action,  situation  and  emotion — every  dramatic  factor  that  will  help 
to  bring  out  the  "whole  life"  entire  is  nicely  adjusted  and  receives 
the  necessary  emphasis.  In  the  early  drama  the  instinct  to  repro- 
duce real  life  on  the  stage  manifested  itself  from  the  beginning. 
Realism  even  to  the  minutest  detail  by  any  means  was  the  main 
object  of  the  playwright.  He  knew  no  other  law  of  composition 
than  that  which  gave  the  fullest  utterance  to  his  mind.  It  could 
not  be  a  question  with  him  whom  to  imitate.  He  wrote  as  he  con- 
ceived and  felt,  and  he  understood  that  his  business  was  closely  to 
imitate  life,  to  reproduce  the  Holy  Night  of  Bethlehem  or  contrast 
the  sadness  and  joy  of  Easter  morning  in  the  most  eflfective  manner 
possible.  And  as  with  the  liturgic  so  with  the  Cyclic  playwright. 
How  bring  home  to  the  spectators  in  the  most  striking  way  the 
origin  of  sin  and  the  history  of  Redemption?  What  manner  of 
appeal  could  best  attract  and  hold,  what  device  of  workmanship 
would  bring  clearest  in  relief  the  idea  of  struggle  between  the  two 
concrete  and  personally  interested  powers  that  underlie  the  ethical 
history  of  the  Human  Race  ?  Some  attempt  has  been  made  to  point 
out  the  playwright's  design  to  give  connection,  unity  and  emphasis 


168 

by  referring  to  his  attitude  toward  his  theme.  The  freedom  with 
which  he  invents  interpolates,  transposes  and  rejects  is  sufficient 
evidence  that  his  conception  of  his  work  differed  widely  from  the 
mere  historical  point  of  view.  He  respected  the  facts  of  history, 
but  he  did  not  restrain  his  fancy  from  amending  them  in  the  in- 
terests of  his  purpose.  It  is  clear  what  advantages  he  possessed 
over  the  historian  and  how  much  his  unity  of  design  through  forty 
acts  contributed  to  distinctness  of  presentation.  This  multiplicity 
of  impressions  unified  by  reason  of  singleness  of  view,  when  cast 
on  the  sympathetic  mind  of  the  onlooker  was  sure  to  leave  there  an 
after-image,  a  kind  of  composite  photograph  in  which  could  be  seen 
the  leading  idea  of  every  scene,  not  as  an  entity  apart,  but  incor- 
porated into  the  structure  of  the  whole,  contributing,  as  it  were,  a 
feature  to  the  living  countenance  which  was  formed  in  the  memory 
of  the  spectator. 

In  passing  to  the  Moral  plays  the  aim  of  the  dramatist  was  to 
present  the  same  dramatic  idea  under  a  new,  more  concrete  and  em- 
phatic form.  It  was  easier  in  this  species  of  drama  to  show  the 
intrinsic  relations  of  character  and  passion  or  the  vital  sequence  of 
mental  and  moral  development.  It  was  no  longer  question  to  speak 
of  the  origin  of  evil  in  general,  and  the  persistent  conflict  waged 
between  it  and  the  good  as  affecting  the  human  race  at  large ;  but  to 
present  this  warfare  within  an  individual,  through  the  medium  of 
anthropomorphized  abstractions  which  would  externalize  the  pro- 
cesses of  the  secret  spiritual  agencies  going  on  within.  Thus,  in 
making  objective  the  several  activities  of  the  mind  by  raising  each 
to  the  dignity  of  an  independent  role  the  writer  of  the  Moral  play 
contributed  not  a  little  to  dramatic  precision  of  outline  in  detail — 
in  the  measure  the  impossible  scope  of  his  theme  would  allow — 
without  deviating  from  the  old  idea  and  line  of  development  indi- 
cated in  the  Liturgical  drama  and  realized  in  the  perfect  imitation 
of  the  Liturgy  itself  which  leads  to  the  grand  climax  where  the  sub- 
stance and  symbol  meet  and  actually  become  one. 

This  was  the  early  Moral  play  which  in  many  respects  stands 
in  such  close  relation  to  the  drama  of  the  Sanctuary  that  it  may  be 
looked  on,  to  some  extent,  as  the  fuller  expression  and  complement 
of  the  Liturgical  presentation.  The  later  Moralities,  in  root  for  the 
most  part,  no  different  from  the  earHer  plays  of  the  type,  were  in- 
fluenced, however,  more  than  these  by  the  work  of  the  Cyclic  play- 
wright.   In  time  as  well  as  in  ms^tter  and  manner  they  mark,  broadly 


169 

speaking,  the  transition  stage  between  the  Mediaeval  and  Eliza- 
bethan drama.  At  every  step  the  author  seems  to  look  back  toward 
the  old  religious  exhibitions,  but  this  only  delays  his  progress.  His 
own  preferences  and  the  tastes  of  his  audience  incline  him  to  ad- 
vance in  the  way  of  the  new  theatre.  While  retaining  the  form 
and  to  a  degree  the  didactic  tendency  of  the  earlier  Moral  plays, 
the  author  in  the  later  varieties  of  the  species  guarded  against  ab- 
straction in  the  presentation.  In  keeping  the  allegorical  action  he 
is  merely  following  the  old  convention  and  the  line  of  least  re- 
sistance, for  his  allegory  clothes  the  reality  only  in  the  airiest  of 
undress  costume.  One  can  perceive  the  countenance  beneath  the 
veil.  The  caste  is  abstract  only  in  name;  satire  is  introduced; 
points  of  native  humor  and  wit,  and  incidents  of  personal  interest 
so  outline  individual  features  that  there  is  little  in  the  actor  to  sug- 
gest his  representative  character.  Thus,  in  emphasizing  what  had 
been  introduced  into  the  cyclic  scenes  merely  as  points  of  relief  or 
with  the  view  of  giving  local  color  to  the  workmanship,  the  moral 
plays  imperceptibly  pass  from  considerations  affecting  the  ethical 
life  of  a  Humanum  Genus  and  Everyman  in  general,  to  a  more  con- 
crete presentation  of  ordinary  existence  with  its  manifold  interests. 

The  change  of  motif,  the  humanizing  of  the  theatres,  did  not, 
however,  escape  the  weakness  usually  attendant  on  transition.  The 
essential  dramatic  qualities  easily  perceptible  in  the  earlier  forms  of 
the  Gothic  drama  were  missing  from  the  stage  during  this  brief 
period.  The  dramatic  action  from  being  mainly  intrinsic  came  quite 
on  the  surface  for  a  time.  Instead  of  beginning  at  the  heart  of 
their  persons  and  working  outwards,  the  dramatists  of  the  transi- 
tion stage  began  at  the  surface  and  worked  the  other  way — noting 
merely  the  incongruous  accidents  of  the  character  with  little  rela- 
tion to  the  cause  of  their  being.  With  the  earlier  writers  of  Morali- 
ties all  this  was  just  reversed.  They  conceived  their  persons  not 
from  the  outside,  but  in  their  rudiments  and  first  principles.  They 
began  with  the  heart  of  the  character  and  unfolded  it  outwards. 
But  the  time  was  not  now  distant  when  power  sufficient  arose  that 
drove  the  impracticable  allegory  as  well  as  meaningless  buflFoonery 
from  the  stage,  and  restored  in  an  artistic  and  explicit  manner, 
motifs  equal  in  force  of  appeal  to  those  that  were  previously  im- 
plied in  the  action  on  the  religious  stage. 

From  this  cursory  review  of  a  main  line  of  Mediaeval  dra- 
piatic  activity,  I  think  it  may  be  concluded  that  the  theatrical  reper- 


170 

tory  of  this  long  period  is  of  a  much  richer  quality  than  appears 
from  a  purely  textual  analysis  of  the  material.  From  the  viewpoint 
of  character-presentation,  the  religious  drama  possessed  a  consider- 
able wealth  and  variety  of  dramatic  life  which,  when  seen  in  the 
light  of  influencing  circumstances  as  affecting  author  and  audience 
respectively,  was  far  more  concrete,  actual  and  personal  than  may 
be  easily  conceived  at  the  present  day.  When  the  religious  drama 
is  studied  with  the  help  of  collateral  information  it  will  appear  that 
the  playwright  was  occupied  throughout  on  a  genuinely  dramatic 
and  original  idea,  and  that  his  constant  effort  had  been  to  present 
this  idea  with  all  the  realism  and  actuality  in  his  power.  The  in- 
stinct to  reproduce  in  the  strongest  colors,  born  with  the  drama, 
was  cultivated  as  time  went  on.  The  several  sub-varieties  of  the 
main  species  of  dramatic  growth  evidence  ambitious  attempts  of 
the  ceaseless  activity  of  the  same  instinct  for  something  novel  and 
attractive.  Whatever  would  arrest  attention  or  afford  emphasis, 
anything  that  would  renovate  the  familiar  theme  was  welcomed. 
This  was  a  sign  of  life,  and  a  promise  of  hope  when  a  public  would 
compel  the  author,  as  eventually  it  did,  to  choose  and  adjust  his 
material  in  a  more  artistic  manner. 

This  injecting  of  lighter  matter  into  the  substance  of  the  com- 
position not  only  added  the  element  of  interest,  but  contributed 
much  to  a  concrete  and  enlivened  presentation  of  the  whole  which 
ever  remained  in  purpose  distinctively  serious.  Not,  however,  to 
.  this  flavoring  of  the  main  subject,  but  to  the  vital  dramatic  quali- 
ties intrinsic  in  the  theme  itself  that  the  theatre  of  the  Middle  Ages 
owes  its  real  value  and  longevity.  After  all,  it  was  the  impulse  to 
find  fitting  and  forcible  expression  for  the  essentially  dramatic  in 
the  underlying  idea  that  led  to  the  introduction  of  heterogeneous 
elements.  The  Mediaeval  author  of  religious  plays  perceived  the 
essence  of  the  drama — this  is  evident  and  important — and  sought 
by  every  means  within  his  reach  to  present  it  in  a  telling  and  at- 
tractive manner.  The  measure  of  his  success — a  minor  considera- 
tion— is  best  ascertained  when  we  have  projected  ourselves  into  his 
surroundings  and  seen  life  as  he  saw  it.  When  we  have  under- 
stood the  business  of  the  stage,  with  what  it  implies,  and  above  all 
when  his  motifs  which  give  full  meaning  to  what  seems  to  us  mere 
elliptical  utterances,  are  duly  appreciated,  we  shall  be  minded  to 
believe  that  a  Mediaeval  imitation  of  dramatic  existence  on  the 


171 

reported,  but  that  in  spite  of  inadequate  and  awkward  expression, 
there  flourished  a  vigorous  and  healthy  dramatic  vitality;  just  the 
manifestations  of  life  that  admirers  of  Shakespeare — apart  from  any 
knowledge  of  the  pre-Elizabethan  drama — would  on  very  reasonable 
grounds  have  divined  to  be  peculiarly  fitting  the  Poet's  ancestors. 


INDEX 


Abel.  75,  113,  116 

Abraham,  and  Isaac,  isolated  play,  68, 
76;  in  Brome  play,  102 

Adam,  and  Eve,  74,  79 

Adam,  of  St.  Victor,  51 

Aeschylus,  18 

Alcman,  17 

Alexandrian,  dramatists,  18 

Allegory,  59,  60,  120,  124;  emanci- 
pation from,  125;  in  drama,  153; 
attenuation  of,  154;  a  perfect,  156 

Ambrosian,  song,  50 

Ammianus  Marcellinus,  19 

Anglia,  66,  102 

Annas,  94 

Antichrist,  66 

Apocryphal,  64,  94 

Aquinas,  St.  Thomas,  51 

Architecture,  Mediaeval,  51,  61 

Art,  53 

Aristophanes,  18 

Aristotle,  18,  28 

Athens,  17,  164 

Atonement,  69 

Attic,  and  early  English  Stage,  18; 
tragedy  and  comedy,  164 

Augustine,  66 

Autos  Sacramantales,  55,  165 

Bale,  125,  163,  164 

Baptism,  and  Church  discipline,  22 

Bates,  59 

Benedict,  St.  Rule  of,  42 

Ben  Greet,  on  Everyman,  141 

Bible,  14;  Poor  Man's,  49;  persons  of, 

56,  95,  hi;  caste,  iii,  116;  series, 

119 

Boniface,  Pope,  VIII,  27 

Boyd  -  Carpenter,  27,  143 

Bossier,  22 

Brambs,  26 

Brome,  play,  102,  109 

Brewbarret,  75 

Bruaeti^re,  15,  161 


Byzantine,  drama,  29;  mimes,  24,  25 

Cain,  75,  113,  114,  115,  116 

Caiaphas,  89 

Calderon,  29,  55,  59,  130,  132,  165 

Campbell,  18,  39 

Cassiodorus,  and  Tribune  of  Pleasures, 
21 

Castle,  of  Constancy,  37;  oldest  Mor- 
ality extant,  128,  134, 142, 144,  154 

Chambers,  E.  K.,  21,  24,  25,  42,  56, 
57,  65 

Characterization,    Shakespearean,   12; 
defined,  29-32;  technical  meaning, 
37;  accessories  of,  79,  117;  of 
Christ,  96;  on  eve  of  Elizabethan 
drama,  153 

Chaucer,  98,  160,  161,  162 

Chester,  cycle  of,  64,  88,  109,  no 

Credo,  134 

Christianity,  mediaeval,  15,  27,  31; 
and  the  stage,  21 

Christmas,  origin  of,  23,  46,  47 

Christus  Patiens,  26 

Chronicle,  play,  60,  62,  63,  112 

Church,  and  stage,  21,  22 

Classics,  28 

Collier,  12,  88,  131,  134,  146,  158 

Collins,  16,  27 

Comedy,  Aristotle  on,  18;  New  Greek, 
19;  in  Towneley  Cycle,  no;  in 
Moral  play,  11 1;  in  Coventry 
Cycle,  in;  and  tragedy,  119;  of 
Woodes;  124 

Corpus  Christi,  Cycles,  57,  71 

Courthope,  li,  18,  28,  69,  in;  on 

Allegory,  120,  122;  on  Moralities, 
142,  164 

Coventry,  Cycle  plays  of,  64,  87,  100; 
comic  element  in,  in 

Cycle,  scenes,  14;  Four  compared,  64, 
120;  vernacular,  67,  93;  series,  68, 
69;  playwrights,  120;  dramatic 
unity  of,  125 

Cynewulf,  126 


174 


Dill,  on  the  Roman  stage,  19 

Diouysia,  17,  164 

Dodsley,  58 

Dollinger,  20 

Dowden,  32,  39 

Drama,  liturgical  and  cyclic,  14,  59, 
62,  63,  64,  66;  compared,  no,  167; 
Gothic,  23,  24,  27,  164,  167;  his- 
torical, 60,  62,  63,  163;  seculariza- 
tion of,  60, 169;  Italian  and  Renais- 
sance, 16;  Modern,  17,  20 

Dryden,  12 

Duchesne,  origin  of  Christian  worship, 
23 

DuMeril,  19,  ari,  24,  27,  43,  47,  54 

Eastertide,  ecclesiastical  drama  of,  23; 
office  at,  42-45,  46 

Ebert,  on  the  drama  of  Hrotswitha,  25 

Eckedard,  50 

Edward,  IV,  147 

Egan,  29,  162 

Elizabethan,  drama,  16,  26,  28  40,  95; 
hero,  98;  dramatist,  102;  contribu- 
tion of  Mediaeval  to,  118,  119; 
transition  to  E.  drama,  169 

Emmaus,  drama  of  the  Travellers,  68 

Empire,  20,  24 

Epicurus,  philosophy  of,  18 

Epos,  17,  36 

Eucharist,  88 

Evangelist,  92,  94,  96 

Everyman,  121,  133;  outlined,  138; 
its  dramatic  value,  141,   144,  145, 
153.  169 

Faguet,  29 
Fathers,  Church,  22 
Fate,  33 

Faustus,  131,  143 
Free-will,  35 

Freytag,  definition  of  dramatic  action, 
36,  38,  54 

Gascoigne,  49 

Geoffrey,  of  Paris,  26 

Gospel,  85;  of  Nicodemus  89,  96; 
personified,  120 

Gothic,  drama,  23,  24,  27,  165;  play- 
wright, 31,  49;  architect,  49 


Gorboduc,  163 

Greban,  Myst^re  du  Passion,  133 

Greece,  17,  29 

Greek,  theatre,  17,  33 

Gregory,  VII,  27 

Gregory,  the  Great,  50;  Gregorian 

Melodies,  52 
Guild,  68,  134 

Hamelins,  on  the  character  of  Cain, 

114 
Hazlitt,  on  Shakespeare's  achieve- 
ment, 13 
Heliogabalus,  19 
Henry,  VI,  147 
Henry,  VIII,  154,  157,  160 
Henslowe,  dairy,  61 
Herod,  66,  67,  84,  135 
Heywood,  John,  125,  160,  161,  162 
Hey  wood,  Jasper,  162 
Humanism,   16,  26,  57,  58,  59,  60;  and 

and  the  Moral  play,  118,  153,  162, 

163,  169 
Hohlfeld,  65,  71 
Hymnology,  Mediaeval,  51 

Ingelande,  Thomas,  957,  158 

Introit,  48 

Italian,  drama,  16,24 

Joculatores,  24 

Jouglers,  24 

Joseph,  St.,  65,  81,  95,  98,  100 

Jusserand,  14,  16,  24,  25,  122,  123;  Eng- 
lish theatre  at  time  of  Rsnaissance, 
154 

Justinian,  19,  20,  24 

Katharina,  lyudus  de  St.,  26 
Ker,  55 
Krehbiel,  55 
Krumbacher,  20,  24,  26 
Kyrie,  50 

Ivammastide,  134 

Law,  dramatic,  40 

Lazarus,  68,  87 

Learning,  New,  71,  124,  161 

Lee,  Sidney,  on  Shakespeare's 

characters,  13,  32,  54,  143 
Lounsbury,  116,  117 


175 


Liturgy,  origin,  23;  Old  Roman,  52; 

effects  on  history  of  drama,  166 
Liturgical,  drama,  14,  19,  52;  an 

estimate  of,  56,  168;  office,  41,  45; 

opera,  55 
Lucifer,  71,  72,  78,  79,  85 
Lycophron,  26 
Lyiy,  49 

Macbeth,  climax  in,  37 
Macro,  Moralities,  121,  325,  144 
Magdalen,  43,  44,  45,  55,  67,  94,  I44 
Mankynd,  outlined,  144 
Mauly,  42,  T02,  156 
Marian,  plays,  78 
Marienklage,  100 
Mallowe,  32,  143 
Mary,  95,  98 
Massinger,  35,  154 

Matthews,  on  the  Moral  play,  120,  166 
Maury,  on  Mediaeval  legends,  23,  94 
MacCarthy,  130,  132 
Mediaeval,  playwright,  14,  165,  170; 
stage,  15;  architecture,  52,  166; 
hymnology,  51 ;  audience,  54;  caste, 
56;  predilection  for  Allegory,  120 
Menander.  18 
Middle  Ages,  dramatic  activity,  32; 

allegory  during,  122 
Migne,  25,  42 
Milton,  126 
Minstrel,  28 
Moral,  plays,  14,  37;  a  new  species, 

It8;  caste  of,  126,  168 
Morality,  plays,  59,  60;  and  Cycles,  loi; 
and  dramatic  evolution,   102,  119; 
earlier  and  later,  122.  123,  168,  169; 
educational,  154 
Moore,  Sir  Thomas,  155,  161 
Morgann,  38 

Mundus  et  Infans,  outlined,  135,  142 
Mystery,  celebration  of  Christian,  122; 
of  Nativity,  46;  du  Passion,  133 

Neumann,  50,  51 
Nash,  61 

New  Comedy,  19 
New  Learning,  71 


Newman,  21;  on  development  of  ideas, 

127 
Nicodemus,  67,  89 
Novel,  36 
Novelist,  37 

Ober-Ammergau,  92 

Oberle,  on  nature  of  Christianity,  21 

Opera,  51,  58 

Origin,  of  drama  in  Greece,  17 ;  of 
Gothic  Drama,  23,  27;  ot  Christ- 
mas, 23;  of  the  Liturgy  23;  Eng- 
lish comedy,  161 

Palestrina,  51 

Pageant,  70,  71;  Doomsday,  loi; 

Coventry,  133 
Paris,  Mathew  of,  26 
Pater,  Walter,  on  the  Renaissance,  26 
Paternoster,  134 

Personality,  versus  character,  31-32 
Pharaoh,  77 

Philologus,  124,  133,  164 
Piers  Plowman,  122,  146 
Pilate,  66,  87;  wife  of,  89,  93,  94 
Plautus,  26 
Pleasures,  Tribune  of,  19,  21;  tables  of, 

23 
Plays,  liturgic,  cyclic  and  moral,  14, 
118,  120,  127;  chronicle,  60,  163: 
passion,  59;  historical,  60,  62 
Playwright,  York,  81,  95,  98; 

Towneley,  iii 
Poetics,  of  Aristotle,  18 
Pollard,  21,  73,  114,  125,  131.  144 
Pyke-Harnes,  113,  116 

Quem  quaeritis,  57,  66 
Queen's  Progress,  61 

Rastall,  155 
Redford,  156,  157 
Renaissance,  (see  Humanism) 
Resurrection,  in  dramatic  history,  47, 

49;  plays  after,  100 
Ritual  64;  dramatic  influence,  165 
Rome,  stage  and  life  at,  19,  20,  21,  22; 

mediaeval,  24;  playwright,  25,  26 
Ruskin,  61 


176 


Sackville,  49 

Saintsbury,  163 

Salisbury,  John  of,  quoted,  24 

Sanctuary,  scenes,  19,  40,  48,  118,  168; 

of  Venus,  22 
Saracens,  20 

Satin,  74,  75,  80,  85,  93,  124 
Sathas,  20 

Schelling,  61,  62,  112;  on  Bale,  163 
Scholastics,  57 
Scop,  167 
Senec,  26,  162 
Sepet,  14 
Sepulchre,  43,  44 
Sequence,  45,  46,  50,  51 
Shadan,  origin  of  Christmas, 23; 

middle  ages,  53,  61 
Shakespeare,  and  the  early  stage,  11-12, 

171;  characterization,  13,  40,  91; 

achievement  of,  31,  32,  33,  35; 

Voltaire  on,  116 
Sidney,  on  pre-Elizabethal  drama- 
tists, 112,  113 
Smith,  L.  T.,  65,  102 
Smith,  S.  S.,  112 
Sophocles,  39 
Spain,  20,  29 
Spectacula,  19 
Stage,  Attic,  18;  before  Shakespeare, 

12, 14;  Roman,  21;  liturgical,  cyclic 

and  moral,  163 
Stoddard,  F.,  65 
Symbolism,  69,  79 
Synagogue,  66;  personified,  112,  120 
Symonds,  on  the  Moral  Play,  60,  127 

Tables,  of  pleasures,  23 

Taylor,  on  mediaeval  symbolism,  53 

Testaments,  69,  70,  78  79;  New  T. 

series,  81;  a  twofold  life  of  Christ 

in,  97 


Terence,  25,  26 

TertuUian,  22 

Ten  Brink,  on  the  moral  plays,  59; 
Abraham  and  Isaac,  10,  77,  109; 
on  St.  Joseph,  84;  on  the  Myste- 
ries, 89,  122;  on  personification, 
123;  sources  of  Everyman^  138 

Theatre,  17;  English,  18;  Roman,  20; 
Gothic,  153 

Theodoric,  20 

Thespis,  17 

Ticknor,  20,  29.  55 

Tity villus,  145,  146,  ijO,  151 

Towneley,  cycle,  64,  77,  78,  88,  107, 
III;  author,  113,  162;  Secunda 
Postorum,  163 

Tragedy,  Aristotle's  definition,  18;  and 
comedy,  112,  113,  119 

Tribune  of  pleasures,  23 

Trope,  41,  47,  50 

Tunison,  dramatic  traditions,  16,  20, 
24,  25,  26,  27,  70 

Udall,  49 
Unities,  37,  40 

Venus,  25 

Virgin,  Blessed,  66,  68,  69 
Vogt-Koch,  on  Hrotswitha,  25 
Voltaire,  116,  117 

Wakefield,  iii 

Ward,  81,  83,  87,  88,  100,  121,  122,  131, 
142,  157 

Whetstone,  G,  112 

Will,  freedom  of,  35 

Witsuntide,  51 

Wright,  43 

Wyclif,  134 

York,  Cycle,  64,  68,  71,  81,  109;  esti- 
mate of,  94,  III;  Joseph  and  Mary 
in,  loi;  incidents  of  relief,  iii 


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contain  information,  the  latest  and  probably  the  most  authoritative  on  the 
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Sbpkt,  M. 

SKNTII.I,ANGES,  (R.  P.) 

Sharp,  F.  C. 
Smith,  S.  S. 
Smith,  S.  S. 
Smith,  U  T. 
Spingarn,  J. 

Steinhauser,  K. 
Stevsnson,  J.  S. 
Stoddard,  F.  H. 


Symonds,  J.  A. 

SWOBODA,  W. 
TAYI.OR,  H. 

Ten  Brink,  B. 

TiCKNOR,  G. 
TUNISON,  J.  S. 
Underhii,!,,  J.  S. 

Ward,  A.  W. 

Warton,  T. 
Warner, 
woodbridge. 
Wright,  T. 


I^a  I/itt^rature  Franjaise  au  Moyen  Age,  2»  ed.,  1892. 
English    Miracle  Plays,    Moralities  and    Interludes; 

Specimens  of  the  Pre-Elizabethan  Drama,  Edited 

with  Introduction  and  Notes  by  A.  W.  Pollard, 

4th  edition,  1902 
The  Earlier  Renaissance,  1901. 
The  English  Chronicle  Play:    A  Study  in  the  Popular 

Historical    Literature    Environing    Shakespeare, 

1902. 
The  Beginnings  of  Christianity. 
The  Middle  Ages,  Sketches  and  Fragments,  1904. 
The  House  of  God  and  other  Essays,  1 905. 
Les  engines  Catholiques  du  Th^dtre  Modeme,  1901. 
Les  Prophetes  du  Christ:  Etude  sur  les  Origine*  du 

Theatre  au  Moyen  Age,  Paris,  1878. 
L'Art  et  Morale,  1900. 

Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life,  1902. 
Elizabethan  Critical  Essays,  (1570-1603),  2  vols. 
The  Transition  Period,  1900. 
The  York  Plays,  1885. 
A  History  of  Literary  Criticism  in  the  Renaissance, 

1899. 
John  Lyly  als  Dramatiker,  Halle,  1884. 
Towneley  Plays,  edited  for  the  Surtees  Society,  1836. 
References  for  Students  of  Miracle  Plays  and  Myste  - 

ries.  University  of  California,   Library   Bulletin 

No.  8,  1887. 
Shakespere's    Predecessors    in    the  English  Drama, 

1884. 
John  Heywood  als  Dramatiker,  etc. ,  Wein,  1888. 
The  Classical  Heritage  of  the  Middle  Ages,  1901. 
A  History  of  English  Literature,   3  vols.,   1893-96, 

(Translated  from  the  German  by  W.  Robinson), 
History  of  Spanish  Literature,  3  vols.,  1888. 
Dramatic  Traditions  of  the  Dark  Ages,  1907. 
Spanish  Literature  in  the  English  of   the  Tudors, 

1899. 
A   History  of   English   Dramatic  Literature  to  the 

Death  of  Queen  Anne,  2nd  ed.,  1899. 
History  of  English  Poetry,  Hazlitt  ed.,  4  vols.,  1871. 
English  History  in  Shakespeare's  Plays,  1894. 
The  Drama.     Its  Law  and  its  Technique,  1898. 
The  Chester  Plays,  edited  for  the  Shakespeare  Society. 

in  2  vols.  1843. 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

The  writer  of  this  Essay  was  bom  at  Kilmallock,  Ireland,  Janu- 
ary 1 6,  1880.  He  received  his  primary  education  chiefly  in  a  school 
of  his  native  city.  In  1896  he  registered  as  student  of  the  French 
Language  and  Literature  at  the  "  Kcole  Ste.  Croix,"  Le  Vesinet  (a 
suburb  of  Paris),  and  in  the  winter  term  of  the  following  year  he 
entered  the  University  of  Notre  Dame,  Indiana.  Here  his  work  in 
English  was  directed  by  Drs.  Cavanaugh  and  O'Malley.  In  1902 
he  was  graduated  with  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts.  The  same 
year  he  was  admitted  into  the  Congregation  of  the  Holy  Cross  and 
during  the  scholastic  terms  of  1902-03,  he  attended  classes  in  Early 
and  Mediaeval  Church  History  and  Liturgy  at  Notre  Dame.  He 
matriculated  in  the  department  of  English  Literature  in  the  Faculty 
of  Philosophy  of  the  Catholic  University  in  1903.  Here  he  has 
attended  the  lectures  of  Comparative  Philology  of  Dr.  Boiling  and 
pursued  his  subordinate  studies  under  Drs.  Shahan,  Shields  and 
Pace,  to  all  of  whom  he  begs  to  acknowledge  his  gratefulness  not 
only  for  the  use  of  their  libraries  but  for  the  particular  interest  they 
have  shown  in  his  work.  To  Dr.  Egan,  however,  as  professor  of  his 
major  study,  he  is  most  indebted  especially  in  the  preparation  of 
this  Essay. 


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